


The Old Lie: How Sweet and Fitting it is to Die

by rev02a



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anal Sex, Aziraphale loves his Bookshop, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves the Bentley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Eventual Sex, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, She/Her Pronouns for Dagon (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 70,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: (Title taken from Wilfred Owen’s poem “Dulce et Decorem Est”)While the world deals with Pestilence's newest virus, Heaven discovers the Almighty's absence. Without Her to referee, Heaven and Hell forge an agreement: (1) there will be a war, (2) Hell and Heaven will have more foes if they take on the inhabitants of Earth together, and (3) the Earth-stationed powers must be eliminated.Aziraphale and Crowley must stand against all of the Ethereal and Occult forces for a second time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 29





	1. HEAVEN, CONFERENCE ROOM BETA

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic using AO3 and first in a new fandom. I do NOT have a beta reader, so any volunteers would be appreciated. 
> 
> At some point, I need to transfer all my other fandom fics over from LiveJournal (yeah, I'm old).

There are no clocks in heaven, but Uriel receives the Outlook meeting reminder right on time. Thankfully, Heaven is not using that Zoom nonsense that’s taken Earth by storm. Downright tacky and, if she’s honest, she finds herself far more interested in adjusting her seat to avoid her own double chin than whatever agenda Gabriel has cooked up. She gathers her neat notebook (“She believed that she could, so she did” sparkles up at her in white and gold glitter) and her pen, which she clicks habitually as she strides down the hall to Conference Room Beta.

The Archangels offer their traditional greetings and small talk. Uriel takes her usual seat under the “Leadership: Unifying those below you to understand your vision” motivational poster. There is an order to these meetings—which after a few million years makes sense—but today’s agenda has already made the air in the room tense.

Gabriel taps a stack of paper on the table, before aligning his notebook, phone, and mechanical pencil with the stack into perfect right angles. He grins in welcome before he stands and grabs a whiteboard marker. He uncaps it and writes “FAILURE OF END OF THE WORLD—RECAP” with a squeak.

Michael shifts in her seat and clears her throat. “Where is Metatron?”

Gabriel looks toward the door and grimaces. Whatever miracle-based summons just appeared to Metatron was probably uncomfortably loud. Uriel winces in sympathy. It seems to work, however, because a ray of light pops into the room, streaking down. Metatron’s head floats there, looking oddly bloated. He smiles falsely and apologizes for his delay.

“Right,” Gabriel begins, “let’s get right to it. Michael, how is the stand-down going?”

Michael picks up her phone and swipes some app open to read the data listed. Uriel smiles at the new pink “Prayer Warrior” case. It’s shiny but classy.

“The Armory reports a 99.3% return on all weaponry assigned, while Records is reporting 99.8% returns—a slight discrepancy,” Michael frowns and shrugs one shoulder. “I’m looking into it.”

“Well, we always give grace in these situations,” Gabriel replies ironically. His eyes gleam in humor. Sandalphon covers his mouth as he chuckles.

“Beyond that,” Michael continues, completely ignoring any possible humor that could be injected into the situation, “everyone is back to usual work stations.”

“Good,” Gabriel claps, before turning to Uriel, “and how is work productivity?”

Uriel flips open her notebook and rattles off some numbers about the number of “thoughts and prayers” that were sent out over social media, the ratio of people wearing masks to avoid the spread of coronavirus versus those claiming that the Almighty would protect them, and the percent of church-goers who attended from their cars. Everyone around the table nods, pleased with the numbers.

Thus having reported, Uriel sinks slightly back into her seat, albeit, not slouching, of course, but relaxing now that she can simply drink in the other incoming reports. She follows Gabriel’s direction to Metatron.

“And how is the Lord Almighty taking the news of the failed Apocalypse and… the other,” Gabriel grimaces and waves his hand, “development with the Principality of the Eastern Gate?”

Metatron opens his mouth, then immediately closes it. He takes a deep breath. He releases it. Then he dabs his brow with a handkerchief—something Uriel (and everyone else at the table) frowns at. Perspiration is not ethereal. It’s human. (Of course, Metatron and Sandalphon once were human, but that is neither here nor there. Enoch and Elijah are not names used here so Uriel cannot wonder aloud if either of them ever sweated.)

Metatron begins with, “The Lord Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, She who shall not let thy foot be moved—“

Gabriel clears his throat and waves his hand, “Definitely who we’re discussing. What about the Not War? Is She going to, say, maybe, _smite_ someone? Annihilate, perhaps?”

Sandalphon is positively bouncing in his chair. “We could flood again? Or salt pillars? That was really something! How about a meteor? The Department for Heavenly Stellar Systems would really enjoy that sort of a challenge!”

“Absolutely not,” Metatron booms, and Sandalphon isn’t so much cowed and forced to sulk. “Her eye is on the sparrow and—“

“She’s watching, right, obviously,” Michael draws, annoyed, “but what does she want us to do?”

Metatron wipes his brow again. “The Great Plan dictates many things.”

Gabriel taps the table with his pencil in a quick rhythm. “Has she mentioned how this will affect our operation plan?”

Metatron opens his mouth, then smiles as if he is constipated, then declares, “well, I’ll be off then!” And his light pops off and his bloated head is gone.

The others sit in stunned silence. Gabriel hums then offers a false smile before turning to Michael.

“Shall we just,” he gestures to the door, “check on him?”

Michael is already on her feet. “Let’s, just a moment,” she apologizes to the others, and the pair exit.

Uriel flips to a fresh page of her notebook and begins to journal. Sandalphon seems content to fold his agenda into assorted origami animals and then smash them under his fist. There is no clock in Heaven, but Uriel measures the time in a number of folded-then-smushed-creatures before Michael and Gabriel’s return. She feels their presence before they enter the room, Metatron frogmarches into the room between them. For a split second, Uriel wonders if there will be another trial with hellfire. The thought makes her uncomfortable. She wiggles in her seat.

“Well!” Gabriel says brightly, “We have something to discuss!”

Michael is not playing Gabriel’s managerial-nonsense game apparently and jumps right into the issue, “When is the last time anyone directly spoke to the Almighty?”

“Without Metatron?” Sandalphon clarifies.

Gabriel, whose mouth is frozen in a faux simile of a smile, nods.

“Oh hmm,” Sandalphon hums, “I directly spoke to Her around the death of Muhammad. We talked about additional prophets, but decided it could wait.”

Uriel nods, “Yes, I think it was about the same time for me as well.” She knits her brow and then glances back up at Metatron. “What has She said that is so concerning?”

Michael grips Metatron’s arm and he winces with pain. “She hasn’t said anything. She hasn’t been talking to him for years.”

And so begins the Crisis of Heaven.

Uriel is tasked with creating a survey and Sandalphon distributes it. Angels across the celestial sphere find the survey in their inboxes within moments.

_CELESTIAL ESSENTIAL COMMUNICATION BENCHMARK SURVEY 2020_

_Your opinion matters. Please complete the following form to the best of your ability. All feedback is confidential._

  1. _How often do you DIRECTLY commune with the Almighty? (Select one)_



_FrequentlyOften SometimesNever_

  1. _How often does the Almighty DIRECTLY address you? (Select one)_



_FrequentlyOften SometimesNever_

  1. _When was the last time you had DIRECT communication with the Almighty? (Do not include communication with any intermediary communicator.)_



_[Select a date from the calendar, please use the Georgian calendar system.]_

  1. _Given the rate of DIRECT communication provided between your department and the LORD, would you say the amount of communication is too much, just right, or too little? (Select one)_



_Too muchJust right Too little_

The data pours in.

It’s alarming.

Once compiled the Archangels gather again in Conference Room Beta and stare at their printouts. The silence is ominous.

At last, Michael suggests they knock on the Throne Room door. She is always so self-assured, but at that moment, Uriel thinks a slight breeze could knock Michael down. Nevertheless, they troop to the door and knock on it. (This is to say they knock after silently begging each other to angel up and try the knocker. There is much discussion about locating an intermediary from the humans. She is very fond of prophets, saints, and such.) 

There is no answer. The door is locked.

They trade off knocking duties. They try “Shave and a Haircut” and most of “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”. They use Morse Code. Nothing works.

There are no clocks in Heaven, but after nearly an Earthy year of knocking, they realize She is not home.


	2. HELL, ANTE-CHAMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written a story in like six years. Then I sat down and pumped out over 10,000 words. And so it goes!

There is a clock in Hell. It runs six minutes slower than reality, so no matter what task the damned have to do, it takes longer than it should. When in a meeting, this is especially tedious.

Today’s meeting is with Heaven, on as-near-to-neutral ground as Hell has: the ante-chamber. Dagon glares at the clock on the wall. It ticks, but no hands move. The escalator to Hell rolls down and perched on one step is an angel in an extremely starched suit.

Dagon does not like Michael. She always swans into a room wearing a superiority complex like a crown. Dagon is a Prince of Hell and even they have some humility—or whatever the Hell-approved notion of humility is anyway, humility-adjacent maybe. (Hell, honestly, does not have an Official Opinion on humility. The Seven Virtues were a human invention, and while they were touted by a Pope, they are not exactly anti-Hell. It is, however, very uncommon to see a demon with humility. Vanity looks more hellish.)

Even still, Michael called this meeting and Dagon answered the request.

That’s when the news gets out. The Great God Above isn’t in residence any longer.

“So that’s it!” Dagon spits, delightedly, “We’ve won!”

Michael tuts, “Absolutely not. It simply means that She is not about to question about the War and the Great Plan.”

Dagon grins. “So the War is on.”

Michael nods. “The question is only this: between whom?”

This begins the Crisis in Hell. Dagon is tasked with creating a survey and Beelzebub distributes it in triplicate. (Unlike the survey in Heaven, this one has sixteen times as many questions. Many of these questions are just the same question reworded for confusion and then asked again a third time as a “Which of these are you the LEAST likely to” sort of query. It is worth noting that Hell enjoyed the artistry of standardized exams and corporate jargon.)

_DEMONIC ACTIONABLE RELEVANCY, LATERALIZED CORPORATE VALUES AND WHEELHOUSE AGREEANCE, SIGNATURE BIAS AND LOW DECISION LATITUDE CORE COMPETENCY FEEDBACK RESULTS AND ANALYTICS SURVEY 2020.B(11/06/2020, 13:19 UPDATE)_

_Your opinion matters. Complete the following form now. All feedback will be kept mostly confidential._

  1. _On a rating scale of 1-5 (1 being low, 5 being high), how willing are you to go to war with Heaven and its army (hosts of angels)?_



_1 2345_

  1. _On a rating scale of 1-5 (1 being low, 5 being high), how willing are you to go to war with Earth and all its inhabitants (humans, animals)?_



_1 2345_

  1. _How willing are you to work alongside Heaven (as allies) to go to war with Earth and all its inhabitants (humans, animals)?_



_Extremely willingSomewhat willingUndecided Very Unwilling_

The data pours in.

It’s not exactly alarming—demons are demons after all. They want a war. They do not care with whom. Some underling has compiled the data into a spreadsheet and copied it to an overhead projector transfer. The overhead project’s fan wheezes as it is turned on. The light sputters on and the spreadsheet’s grid comes into focus on the wall.

Dagon studies the numbers, then looks over to Beelzebub and their flies. They are drinking bathtub gin out of a mason jar using a bendy straw. Even the way they drink emotes pleasure, as they stare at the tabulation on the projection. Dagon returns their own gaze to the spreadsheet.

“I’d say,” Beelzebub draws out their s’s more like zeds, “we have our pick in an opponent. It’s gratifying to have so many potential foes.”

Dagon smirks, “And I’d say, we tell Satan that we’re going to burn the Earth to the ground.”

“Hail Satan.” Beelzebub’s gin is gone from the cup but they continue to suck on the straw. The sound is a mix of gurgling and slurping, and it is obnoxious. Dagon smiles indulgently before reaching over and breaking the straw in half. Beelzebub flips them the V sign and throws their mason jar at the wall. It shatters, momentarily obscuring the final set of data in the grid.

“Right,” Beelzebub buzzes, “I’ll text Gabriel and arrange a strategy meeting.” They are already tapping out a message on a very cracked phone screen.

“I’m off to see Himself then,” Dagon decides and Beelzebub nods distractedly. On the way out, Dagon grabs the transparency. The data should brighten Satan’s day; he loves spreadsheets.

There is a clock in Hell and it reads six minutes slower than reality. Satan ignores the invite to the Zoom meeting until he is well and truly late. Dagon tries not to hold it against him, but when the camera goes live, he is clearly still in his underwear. Dagon notes that Satan also has his gaming headphones around his neck and he is still fondling his Xbox controller. Dagon’s humor dissipates.

“My Lord,” Dagon begins, but Satan waves them off.

“You have news about the war?” he grumbles, looking off-screen at his game.

Dagon nods, “It’s on, my Lord. We can ally ourselves with Heaven and take on the Earth.”

Satan hums and glances off-screen again.

“The Almighty is—“

Dagon cuts him off, “missing from Heaven. Apparently, She has been absent for millenniums.”

Satan leans forward in his chair, giving Dagon his complete attention for the first time since joining the call. His red face contours into equal consideration and question. “Our Mother is absent and silent. The War can be won then. Defeat the Earth and then, once we’ve tired Heaven, defeat them as well.”

Dagon grins. “Just so, my Lord.”

Satan tosses the controller aside and pulls the headphones from around his neck. “Without Her, we can go off plan. We don’t need my son or the Horsemen.” He grabs about blindly and grasps a pair of cargo shorts. “Get the Arch-demons on this call. We’ll plan our strategy, then add Heaven to the meeting. Let’s get this off the ground.”

There is a clock in Hell and for the first time since time’s inception, it is right on time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick observation on office jargon: it means absolutely nothing but it uses so many letters.


	3. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An agreement has been reached between Hell and Heaven.

Adam Young only has one father. He is not red, nor horned, nor of Hell.

Such a declaration is enough to diminish any powers he may have once had as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

He still has some influence, of course, just not as much as he once did. Even still, when the Heavenly Host joins a certain Demonically-sponsored Zoom call, Adam feels something.

It’s a prickle. Discomfort, even.

Dog’s ears perk up and he turns his head to and fro. Adam looks from Dog’s curious stare to his laptop. Something is changing, but he can’t say what. Is that reason enough to check in with his angel godfather? Indecisively, Adam sits at his desk and flips open the lid to his computer. Email is old school, obviously, but his demon godfather has only been sending Tik Toks from hospitals. He’s less likely to reply in time.

“In time for what though?” Adam asks Dog.

Dog lays his head down on his paws.


	4. EARTH, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Finally, I get to our protagonists.)
> 
> Crowley has energy to burn. Aziraphale gets mail. The first battle begins.

When Crowley said he was going to set the alarm for June or July, he’d meant it. Of course, as soon as he’d cuddled down into his bed, that plan was dashed. Laying still meant letting his demon senses relax and retrieve input. Washes of boundless anxiety and fear kept him awake. He was drenched in tides of negative emotions. It energized him much like electricity zipping across his skin. He twitched and kicked at the sheets. No sleep would come.

Finally, Crowley gave up and rose from the bed. He expected to have shorter, neat hair and be dressed in dark-colored scrubs with an “A.J. Crowley, Registered Nurse (R.N.)” badge for the NHS, so that’s how he appeared. In the weeks while Aziraphale baked, Crowley did what he could to ease some suffering.

He certainly is not limited on power to do so. The fizzle of negative energy swirls and sparks on Crowley’s fingers. There is so much of it—it’s like he is drawing from a wellspring of bad juju. No matter how much he spends, the well remains full. He’s been at people’s sides for hours trying to burn off some of the excess. Yet, he still feels fully charged.

He makes a stop into the storage cupboard and lets his gloved hands brush over boxes of PPE masks. In his wake, these double. His own plastic gown swishes as he rounds the counter in the center of the ICU ward. Weary nurses and doctors update patient charts there, but they’re so tired that they do not see him. Eventually, one-night nurse (who should have been off duty hours ago) smiles up at him. He expects that the plastic face shield will reflect light at just the right angle that she cannot make out his face, so she squints and looks away. Once she does, Crowley joins them on the pretense of updating his own paperwork. Instead, he lightly touches each of their shoulders, letting a little of his spark work into their souls.

It’s a bit like a temptation. Their desperation could bind them in agreement to a demon, but instead, Crowley twists it toward good. They feel a bit more rested, more determined. Pride, perhaps, in their work. Gluttony, certainly, as it pertains to the workaholic. These sins mix with their despair over the endless cases. Standing so near to them is like a contact high. Crowley ducks away.

He returns to the patients. There is no comfort here, just the hiss and beep of machines. No family members. No flowers. No telly. Yet, there is not the same desperation that clouds around the nurses and doctors. There is a sorrow here all the same. Crowley cannot soothe them as Aziraphale could. Peace is not really his business. He can, however, glare at ventilators until they meet his expectations on O2 level output.

Beyond that, this is Pestilence’s domain. (This is particularly depressing as Pestilence retired in 1936 with the birth of antibiotics. Apparently, he liked this particular strain of viral infection. Or so War said. They’d bumped into one another in the Middle East at the beginning of the calendar year. The Americans and the Iranians, obviously.)

The Horsemen were supposed to be neutral. War, famine, pollution, pestilence, and death could be waged for Good or Evil. Crowley could not undo any of these neutral powers. Perhaps someone else could—Crowley was no prince or duke of Hell. He wasn’t even a village councilperson; his powers were limited. And yet, in his previous life, he’d been a Maker. That knowledge zings about him as he approaches his first patient.

Crowley reads the whiteboard at the foot of Helen Davies’ bed.

“Born in 1923, eh?” he murmurs to her. She’s beyond conversation due to the incubation tube and floats in painkiller-fed dreams. He touches her aura and runs his hands over the multitude of colors, looking for places to strengthen her determination. Crowley believes in free will (unless he needs information, in which case he is not opposed to hypnotizing humans. He _is_ a demon.). He cannot undo the virus, but he can encourage her to fight. Strangely, it’s much like sewing together the atoms of the universe.

He continues to speak to her behind the two masks and face shield, “I was at Bertie and Lizzie’s wedding that year. She turned him down twice, ya know.”

Pestilence’s hold casts shadows on her life force. Crowley cannot change this, but he glares at the dim spots all the same. “She wasn’t sure she was cut out for the limelight of being Queen Mother—well, she wasn’t going to be Queen then. All that mess with Edward. Lovely drinking buddy, that one. Shame about the Nazis.”

He looks below her aura and into her DNA strands. He strokes the aging spirals and coaxes rejuvenation. He expects that her particles will strengthen. By his logic, she can heal faster. Crowley steps back and is able to see the room and the woman as they are once again. He nods and purses his lips in satisfaction. Not too shabby.

He pushes a curtain aside and moves to the next bed.

“Ah, December 1952,” he reads from Charles McNulty’s whiteboard, “the Great Smog. Pollution’s doing, well, one of their big ones anyway. I got lost in my own damn neighborhood.”

Crowley raises his hands to run them over the man when a prickle begins at the base of his neck. He stretches his neck and something pops. He sighs in relief and then pokes at this new prickle. Not quite the same as when Adam named Dog. Not really like the impending arrival of Satan at the Tadfield Airbase. Not even the heavy presence of other angels at Aziraphale’s bookshop. Something new, but familiar. Then a guttural voice growls out of the emergency coding speaker.

“You flash bastard, _Crawly_ ,” Hastur growls. Crowley is frozen in fear, his useless heart racing in his chest. This cannot be happening. They’re _free_. Hell has no hold on him anymore. “I’m coming for you.”

Crowley jumps back from Charles McNulty’s bedside and tumbles backward into the divider curtain and Helen Davies’ footboard. The shoe covers do little for helping him find purchase to get his feet back under him. He’s trying to grab anything so he can stand, but the curtain is both under and around him, making it impossible to actually grab the bed behind him.

Hastur’s voice raises in volume. “I’m going to pull every scale off of your miserable body, Crawly. I’m going to watch you bleed until you discorporate and then give you a new body so I can do it again.”

Crowley rolls onto his knees, nearly ripping the curtain from the ceiling in his haste.

“Then I’m going to catch your pet angel and pick his wings clean—feather by feather.”

Crowley’s stomach rolls and he keens out his fear. His vision swims, but only for a moment, then he runs out toward the lift. Behind him, from the ICU speaker, he can hear Hastur screaming obscenities at him, but he flees.

Memories of flames enveloping the bookshop dance before his eyes. _Aziraphale_. He punches the lift button repeatedly. Hastur has never made empty threats before. He isn’t imaginative enough for that. The lift arrives and its doors slide pneumatically open. But finally, it is moving slowly and smoothly downward, and Crowley bounces on the balls of his feet. He hisses at the elevator to go faster. The doors ding open on the ground floor and Crowley sprints out to the car park. In his pocket, his cell phone jingles.

He is tempted to ignore it as he rips the door to the Bentley open. Distantly, he realizes that it is Aziraphale’s ringtone trilling at him. 

“Angel!” he shouts as the Bentley roars to life.

“Crowley, oh my dear, are you all right?” Aziraphale is breathless with relief.“You will not believe this: a message from Upstairs just arrived! They’re coming. There’s to be a war. They want me to come to Heaven—“

“I’m on my way to you, Angel,” Crowley replies, jamming the car into gear and pushing the accelerator to the floor. The Bentley screams through the streets well over its usual ninety-miles-per-hour. Crowley keeps the phone pressed to his ear, feeling their mutual tension in the silent open phone line.

“I thought we had more time,” Aziraphale eventually says. The statement is aiming for carelessness, but it just sounds hopeless.

Crowley double-clutches through a red light and slides around a corner, neatly avoiding a light post with an elegant screech of tires. The streets are eerily empty but brightly lit with signs that encourage social distancing and saving the National Health Service.

“Goodness, drive with some care, won’t you?” Aziraphale chastises, nearly as empathically as if he’d been in the passenger seat. “Did I wake you, dear boy? My call I mean.”

“Nah,” Crowley replies carelessly, “been at University College Hospital.”

Aziraphale hums, “You should have called, my dear. That’s a lot for you to take on. We’re meant to be staying at home,” He pauses, then, to avoid the comment sounding like an unbraiding, he adds, “You worked with Agatha there, didn’t you?”

“The Second Great War, yeah,” Crowley replies as he nearly relaxes into their usual conversation: all continued history and personal narratives. The prickle of unease spikes and Crowley hisses through multiple layers of PPE.

“Hell’s been in contact too.” He can admit now that he is afraid. Aziraphale is not immune, judging by the gasp coming down the line. “Threatening us, threatening you.”

“Not to worry, dear boy. I can handle Hell,” Aziraphale sounds stronger. Crowley hears the whisper of metal on leather as a sword is drawn from a scabbard. Not a heavenly blade, but in the hands of an ethereal warrior, very deadly to a demon.

Aziraphale has always distanced himself from the soldier he was created to be. He has crafted himself into a soft, approachable, friendly face. The strength and knowledge have never left him though. If Hell comes to call, Aziraphale will fell them.

“Nearly there,” Crowley growls, nudging the Bentley to speed up. Aziraphale grunts and something falls in the background. “Angel?” Crowley yelps.

“Packing,” comes the reply. “I think we may need to be on the move.”

Crowley downshifts and takes the last corner in route to the bookshop. There, at last, is the exterior of the proud building. He slams on the breaks and skids into a no-parking area. He feels tires slide up and over the curb. The engine is not fully off as he scrambles out of the Bentley and onto the pavement.

Aziraphale must see him because he opens the door let him in. The phone cord is stretched taunt from the wall by his desk to the door. The mouthpiece is tucked between Aziraphale’s chest and arm and he is hunched over to speak into it while holding the earpiece to his ear simultaneously. Crowley punches something on his mobile screen to hang up and hurries into the shop. He grabs Aziraphale around the waist, careful to avoid the Medieval scabbard looped over his coat, and tugs him into a tight embrace. The candlestick telephone clatters to the counter. He can feel Aziraphale patting him down, checking for invisible injuries before tightening his hold around Crowley’s chest. The door slams shut behind them and the lock latches into place with a near-deafening thunk.

“Packing?” Crowley asks into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We’re warded here.”

Aziraphale nods, before rubbing his hands up Crowley’s spine. “Just a feeling.” He leans back, bracing Crowley by the biceps, and bites his lip. “Before the whistle in Flanders or before the orders in Balaclava came in or seeing Cesar’s boats at Caletum.” He takes a shuttering breath and squeezes Crowley’s arms. “The battle is coming.”

Crowley was not cut from the filament to be a Warrior. He was a Maker. Creative and wild, made to design Her worlds and hang Her stars. When the War in Heaven came, he hung out with the wrong people, but he did not hold a weapon. He did not draw angelic blood.

Aziraphale could not claim the same. He was called into being with a sword in hand. The knowledge of war sewn into him. That was not to say that either of them has avoided serving in humanities wars. Crowley’s blade may not have taken angels' lives, but it has certainly cut short some human’s time on Earth. Even still, he did not consider himself a soldier the way that Aziraphale did.

And if Aziraphale said this was the calm before War showed her face, then Crowley needed to find a weapon.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s waist, ready to move away, but Aziraphale holds him fast. His gaze travels from the top of Crowley’s head down to his face. Aziraphale reaches up and pulls off the face shield.

“Right,” Crowley replies succinctly and snaps his fingers. The layers: hair cover, masks, gown, shoe covers, gloves, and scrubs are replaced instantly with his usual attire of tight jeans and a gray v-neck. His skin and hair are clean. He rolls his shoulders.

Aziraphale smiles and removes Crowley’s sunglasses. Red and purple grooves cut into his face—across the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, and across his forehead. The skin is swollen and nearly bruised with the outline of his PPE. Aziraphale grimaces before wiping his fingers across Crowley’s face. The skin tingles and softens. The grooves recede and the bruises heal.

“There,” he whispers, before pressing a light kiss to the end of Crowley’s nose. Crowley mumbles his gratitude, but Aziraphale is already pulling away.

“Work to do,” Aziraphale reminds as he returns to the bookshelves. Crowley nods and stalks deeper into the bookshop.

There are eons worth of treasures they’d collectively stored here. Books and scrolls on every subject, of course, but also trinkets from their lives. Crowley reviews and disregards item after item. Here the Black Knight’s chainmail. There a copper Minoan dagger that would make a historian weep. Inside the umbrella stand Crowley unearthed an Egyptian Khopesh that Aziraphale might have stolen from a pharaoh. And these are just the items for battle. Just as often Crowley stumbles upon music scores, knitting needles, smooth stones, a brand new Kindle (still in the box, unopened), a framed image of Queen Victoria, and opera glasses. He touches some with reverence, others with humor. The wellspring of evil is still sparking in him, but this hunt (and the foreboding feeling of impending doom) focuses him.

Somewhere behind him, possibly in the stacks, Aziraphale is collecting books and shoving them into a carryall. Crowley pauses to listen. He can hear the overstuffed bag shifting to accommodate the editions, as well as the displacement of reality that makes this possible. There are few cars out on the road in the deep darkness of night during the lockdown. It’s reminiscent of the Blackout in the Second World War. Crowley listens a little harder, this time flicking his tongue out. He forks his tongue and tastes the air. Stillness.

Aziraphale slows his pace as he comes around a shelf, waiting for Crowley’s report. Crowley catches his eye and smiles, tightly. Aziraphale heads toward his desk but pauses to lift a daikyū bow from its place on the wall. He directs Crowley to the location of his quiver (it was from a different time period and country, but an arrow was an arrow).

Crowley slinks into another corner of the bookshop to retrieve it. Of course, it’s when he’s furthest from the door that the presence pulses out on the street. He races back toward Aziraphale, quiver forgotten. He slides on a rug as he retraces his steps, and collides with the table where he collected the weapons. He grabs the Khopesh and swings the curved blade up.

Aziraphale is already in position, wings spread wide, sword lazily trailing him on the ground.

There is a brightness in the street. Soho is nearly alight with holy presence.

Ten angels have circled the bookshop. Each of them stares in through a different window. Their auras pulse-like strobe lights and their physical beings glow. Crowley turns this way and that, checking for escapes.

One angel approaches the door. Her wings are tucked away, still just a possibility in another plane of reality. She glances at Crowley and dismisses him. She focuses solely on Aziraphale.

Crowley shakes out his wings. From her angle, his dark feathers will appear a shadow for Aziraphale’s white. She may not see him as a threat, but he hopes she sees his message all the same: there is little he will not do for his angel.

The angel at the door studies Aziraphale. Next, her eyes trace the double doors and linger on the lintel. She reads the warning painted there with their wards. Even still, she reaches forward and touches the door with intent.

The wards at the door warn the wards on the windows, walls, floors, ceilings, rooflines, and interiors. They send an alert to Aziraphale and Crowley. Both nod. The bookshop sharpens its defenses for the wolves are at the door. Crowley feels the pull on his energy: good thing he has a lot to give right now. He props up Aziraphale’s portion, making the angel look over his shoulder at the demon. Crowley grins, all teeth.

“Save your strength,” he hisses, letting the esses stretch out. “She wants to wrestle.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale fusses, “don’t overdo it.”

Crowley steps to Aziraphale’s side leans his Khopesh against his leg and grabs his sunglasses from the counter. They slide neatly onto his face. He rests his other hand overtop the angel’s hold on the sword and lets his power accumulation show. He lets the sunglasses slip down his nose and grins at the angel.

“Well, yes, of course, evil being so prevalent right now,” Aziraphale nods, before giving a guilty wiggle. “But you should know, all that family time and the making of window decorations and clapping for the NHS has given me a bit of boost too.” And he curls his pinkie finger up to brush Crowley’s palm. A different kind of energy spark races across the demon’s skin.

His grin turns serpentine. “And to access that power?”

“Oh yes, my dear, they would really have had to have spent some time down here to understand the way humans tie their emotions together. It’s bittersweet hope right now, not all angelic choruses,” Aziraphale looks a touch wicked himself.

The angel at the door is joined by two others. She takes a step back and nearly bumps into the Bentley. Crowley glares and lifts the Khopesh once again. The two other angels draw out their wings and flap. The wind batters the wards, but the power sizzles off like heat on a summer’s roof. Crowley tucks his feathers neatly in between Aziraphale’s. This makes Aziraphale smile indulgently.

The two angels run at the door and hit the wards with their heavenly weight. The wards shimmer and Crowley leans back on his heels a bit.

“Steady,” Aziraphale replies, and his powers seek to take back his share to support the wards. Crowley shakes his head no.

“I’m no soldier,” he replies and tightens his grip overtop Aziraphale’s hand as the angels assault the front again.

“You know your way around a sword,” he replies looking to the curved blade in the demon’s hand.

This collision of angel and wards sends sparks showering off the exterior shop wall to the pavement. Humans have begun to take notice. Lights flip on in flats across the street. The Intimate Books shop next door has been offering curbside pick up late into the morning, but now the owners are ignoring social distancing rules. They are standing half out of their door watching the proceedings with interest. One angel turns to them and pulls a sword from the ether. The owners yell in alarm and run out of Crowley’s line of sight from the window. The angel pursues them. There are screams.

Aziraphale is not distracted, instead of turning his attention to a different angel who is stationed at one of the windows. He is on his mobile and talking excitedly. Once the call ends, the ground in the street boils up, dislodging cement and tar to provide an entrance for six demons.

“What?” Crowley yells in alarm as Aziraphale cries out “why are there demons too?” They throw a look of confusion at one another just as the line of demons charge the building.

One demon digs around the foundation of the bookshop only to scrape a ward and be thrown backward and skewered on a light post. As that demon dissolves into dust, another begins digging. Simultaneously, the two angels throw themselves at the door once more like a battering ram.

The wards repel them with increasing power each time. Crowley can feel a sheen of sweat forming on his upper lip.

“Do we have a plan?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley notes that his voice isn’t hysterical like the tarmac of the airbase. This soothes Crowley. Aziraphale still thinks this battle could be won if it came to blows.

“I had planned to take the Bentley and drive like the devil,” Crowley offers, whipping more power to the wards in some sort of supercharging.“Hadn’t planned for Hell and Heaven to team up on us.”

Wards are, essentially, a guarding forcefield. The way Aziraphale and Crowley have cast them over the Bookshop looks rather like weaving on a loom. Here a strand of ethereal magic, there demonic, each looped around love, protection, safety, and other neutral ideas. Unlike weaving, however, individual strands cannot be pulled loose. The building the wards are laid on, however, can be destroyed. It’s tricky to do, but possible.

This is why Aziraphale is watching the squares of glass that enlaid on the front entrance. While the ward is holding, the glass at the lowest square closest to the doorknob is shivering. Crowley is looking beyond the wards, watching the way the angels and demons take turns running at the door.

“The wards are going to splinter when the door comes down,” Aziraphale notes as one of the hinges groans.

Crowley pulls power from the ceiling joists with a grunt and reinforces the door casing. A trickle of perspiration runs under his shirt collar.

“Could you move us to the Bentley?” Aziraphale asks as he mimes snapping.

Crowley grimaces and reaches out his power in an additional direction. The demons outside are the sort that Hell uses to get stuff done, without any real power. Disposable. The angels on the other hand feel like holy wrath. Could he spirit them past this guard? He has too much doubt to chance it.

Aziraphale’s energy fills in behind Crowley’s to hold the wards, so he throws his search further afield and checks his flat. Powerful auras linger there as well. They aren’t inside the wards yet, but the jump alone might take too much from him. What if he was too warn out to hold up their shield once in Mayfair? He feels out to St. James’ Park and finds it empty of powers.

“I could jump us to our bench,” he offers slowly. The glass pane rattles and cracks under the pressure of the onslaught. The bookshop’s other wards braid together to cover the hole, but the angels have a new target.

“That’s at least a mile away,” Aziraphale snaps. “You’ll be tapped out of power for hours.”

The wards are dancing about. The demons attack the door with wings out.

“We could go by phone,” Crowley gestures to the candlestick telephone on the counter.

“You know angels cannot travel by particles!”

“Light then, you could go as light,” Crowley expands, waving his Khopesh in emphasis.

The demon closest to the door has braces herself on an angel and scratches at the ward above the shattered glass pane. Angrily, she breathes out hellfire, and the angel behind her in suddenly engulfed and annihilated.

“Light is both a wave and a particle,” Aziraphale grumbles, but his words are lost to the in-fighting happening outside the bookshop.

Two angels descend on the hellfire-breathing demon and they smite her with holy justice. Another demon runs and jumps onto the back of the second angel, ripping and biting at his wings. Another demon coaxes the hellfire and it grows across the facade of the building. There is the clang of swords. Humans yell “fire” and then scream in agony. Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand.

He cannot jump an angel across hellfire. It might work, but he will not chance his best friend.

The front windows darken with soot and smoke. The demonic energies of the wards strengthen in the hellfire, but Aziraphale is paling. Crowley is about to comment when a demon sticks his face into the flames and presses against the glass. The wards propel him away in a multitude of pieces.

Crowley casts his eyes around the back of the building. “We could go out the rear window.” It’s tiny, but they are really out of options at this point.

Aziraphale, lacking any other plan, nods. Smoke from the hellfire is beginning to seep into the bookshop. The angel wavers.Crowley turns grabs the carryall of books and pulls Aziraphale along by their joined hands. Getting Aziraphale away from the smoke and flame is paramount.

At that moment, the rug by Aziraphale’s desk rolls back. The Cabala circle that is chalked to the floorboards glows.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale and Crowley say in unison.

The Cabala circle is engulfed in a shaft of holy light. In its center, the first angel from the doorway stands. Her wings are spread out and she holds a blade in each hand. The holy light shields her from the smoke. She seems completely content.

Her voice rocks the bookshelves and dust falls from the ceiling beams, “ **PRINCIPALITY OF THE EASTERN GATE**.”

Crowley groans and covers his ears, even while still holding his curvy, Egyptian blade. The heavenly timbre scrapes his eardrums. Aziraphale is all soldier. He spread his wings open and feathers forward. His stance is solid, with legs apart, his sword gripped in two hands. He is solid but limber.

The angel before them glares with sightless gold eyes. One of the swords burst into flames.

“That, my dear girl, is _mine_!” Aziraphale shouts, thoroughly scandalized.

The angel swings the sword in dramatic rounds and hand-offs, finally sliding its blade against the other rapier she carries. “ **COME AND TAKE IT THEN**.”

And she **grows**.

She sweeps out with the flaming sword and throws Aziraphale, who is still normal Aziraphale sized, back into his desk. Crowley drops the bag of books and runs at the angel. She waves her hand at him with a sneer.

“ **UPON THY BELLY SHALT THOU GO, AND DUST SHALT THOU EAT ALL THE DAYS OF THY LIFE** ,” is a long-phrase, but it happens in barely an instance. The Khopesh clangs on the floorboards beside Crowley’s sunglasses. He is back as he first was in the Garden.

Aziraphale sees Crowley forcibly changed into his snake form. Something in his face changes. He turns smoothly toward the angel and unties his bowtie. It floats to the ground as he slides his arms out of his coat. He unbuttons his waistcoat and sets these two layers on a nearby armchair. She chuckles as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves.

Crowley shakes his serpent head slowly. He reaches inside himself looking for the Crowley-form-with-humanish-features. The knowledge to change forms elludes him. Dazed, he slithers forward, nosing his blade to Aziraphale. What a time to not have hands.

“Are you all right, my dearest?” he asks, leaning down to retrieve the curved sword.

In this form, Crowley mostly hisses. Consonants are hard to get his long tongue around. Even still, he tries to communicate.

“I can’t change back.”

Aziraphale rolls his shoulders and steps in front of Crowley. “Take care, darling, and stay out of the way. This may get bright.”

Crowley coils back, encircling the carryall. He watches as closely as he can when Aziraphale allows his true form to shine through. He is large and dazzling.

The two angels face-off, bending the line between realities. Neither is completely ethereal nor physical. They fight.

There are sparks of holy light that leave Crowley blinded and only able to see white shapes. He can make out how they dance around one another. There are crashes of thunder. He tastes the air. More angels and demons are filling the street beyond the bookshop door. The hellfire threatens other buildings. The wards tremor as they try to contain it.

Crowley slides back further against the wall, pulling the bag of books with him. The wards are grinding against his power. Just earlier he had sworn that the well of negative feelings was nearly infinite.

Aziraphale and the angel’s blades lock and they teeter toward a bookshelf. Crowley hisses and the shelf slides backward away from them. It sets the other angel off balance and she jabs out with her second, non-blazing sword. It strikes Aziraphale, drawing a line of golden blood from his shoulder.

Crowley roars, but Aziraphale is already twirling away with a slice of his own. She stumbles and crashes into a pair of armchairs. They are crushed. Her head hits the wall of the window and the glass cracks in a spiderweb pattern. When she regains her feet, her hand is dripping gold blood. Aziraphale adjusts his stance and prepares for the next volley.

Outside the hellfire lashes against the wards. A demon tries the window where the glass is cracked. The wards discorporate him instantly. Distantly, Crowley can hear the siren of a fire brigade truck.

The angel drops one sword from her injured hand, but Aziraphale is still strong enough to carry both blades. She takes a swing, but he meets her in a parry, then kicks her in the knee. She falls and her blade slides across the floor to him. He drops the Khopesh and claims his flaming sword once more.

There is _whoomp_! as it ignites in its rightful owner’s hand. The other angel grabs her secondary blade and runs at Aziraphale.

Crowley sees the rug. He opens his mouth to yell, but his tongue is not meant for speech. A loud hiss issues out as Aziraphale trips on the rug. He tucks and rolls out of a messy fall. It brings the fight closer again to the books and the center of the bookshop.

As he regains his footing, the other angel strikes. She lands a solid blow, driving the blade into Aziraphale’s side. He gasps, then radiates light in pain.

“Aziraphale! Angel!” Crowley yells, his ess sounds dragging out longer than he wished.

It’s then that Crowley _feels_ the bookshop.

Heavenly and hellish energy interacts with humans and human inventions in strange ways. Take Crowley’s own houseplants: they could be (and regularly were) afraid. The Bentley, also, was changed. It could alter music from any band or performer into Queen in only two weeks. It drove itself on occasion. The bookshop was similar.

Books rain off of shelves at the other angel. She swats at them. The bookcases and curio cabinets surge forward to form a wall. This lets Aziraphale poke at his injury. He grimaces in pain and presses his hand to the wound. The attacking angel is slowed down as she hacks at the furniture. Crowley takes the opportunity to slither forward to his friend.

The cabinet collapses into broken pieces. The other angel's vision locks onto Crowley. Her eyes gleam gold, but seem cloudy and blind.

“ **THE DEMON FALLS** ,” she growls and launches as Crowley. Her blade cleaves through the air. Crowley rears back to strike. As her sword slashes toward him, Crowley grabs the carryall with his tail and throws it upward. It misses her by a mile and it falls away forgotten. Without other options, he lunges forward and latches onto her physical neck. His fangs dig into her skin and she screams. The sound echoes in his head (as he does not have ears in this form) and he feels his fangs burning from her holy blood. It drips down her neck and onto his belly. It burns and Crowley lurches his body away.

At that moment, Aziraphale drives his blade into her from behind. Crowley releases his hold and falls to the floor. Aziraphale yanks his flaming blade back and stabs again. She buckles in on herself, shrinking to an Earthy size. He pushes her toward the Cabala circle. Crowley alters the shaft of light. It now connects the interior of the bookshop to the street and hellfire beyond like a U-Bend-shaped tunnel. She trips into the circle and falls from view. Aziraphale grabs the table that has long welcomed customers into the shop and shoves it into the circle, forcing it into the floor like a manhole cover. The circle shivers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale shouts, bracing the tabletop and holding his other arm over his wound, “we can trap them.”

Crowley nods and slithers out, forcing all the power from the wards forward into the street. The hellfire advances like a wall that circles the demons and angels alike. They are slowly backed into the tunnel. Aziraphale groans, clearly pulling on additional energy to hold the table in place. Crowley focuses and draws on every bit of negative energy he can. He imagines the table settling into the floor like a mosaic. It locks in place under Aziraphale’s hands.

Next, the tunnel shortens because Crowley expects it to do so. Then, suddenly, he feels his power lesson.

Aziraphale is looking at him, eyes glowing with heavenly power. “Bittersweet hope, my dear,” he whispers.

It’s an idea. Crowley isn't sure if it will work, but he leans on the power well that Aziraphale mentioned. It feels nearly depthless. It’s not completely evil or good… but it’s the first neutral that Crowley finds himself able to influence. The tunnel tightens its hold on angels and demons. The hellfire circles outside its entrance, spinning like a cyclone.

The smoke is beginning to affect Aziraphale again and he shrinks to his usual size and sags against the new table mosaic. Crowley pulls his coils in tighter as he exerts his will further. The cyclone sucks into the tunnel-like water in a drain. Angels begin to scream. Crowley pulls the wards in after the flames and demons’ screams join in like a dying choir.

The others in the tunnel begin to force their own will. The flames and wards stall. Crowley would grit his teeth, but his jaw does not currently work that way. Aziraphale droops and Crowley sees gold blood seeping from between the angel’s fingers. He needs more power, but he is unable to draw from anywhere else.

Unless he borrows it from somewhere unexpected.

“He’ll die,” he hisses at the bookshop. Pages flutter and a wall creaks. “Help me save him.”

The glass cracks at the front window. The bookshop is considering. Aziraphale groans and rests his forehead on the floor.

“Hold on, Angel,” Crowley yells. The bookshop floor vibrates and then power flows into Crowley. He shoves the wards into the tunnel, taking the hellfire with it. The bookshop’s presence drops out of existence.

The tunnel is still open on one end and demons are scratching their way toward that end. There is no more power.

Except, there _is_ something.

The Bentley is there in Crowley’s awareness. It is playing Queen sweetly.

_“Love me like there's no tomorrow_

_Hold me in your arms, tell me you mean it_

_This is our last goodbye and very soon it will be over_

_But today just love me like there's no tomorrow.”_

Crowley would weep, but Aziraphale’s breathing is so shallow. He pulls and the Bentley gives up its being willingly. The door snaps off the driver’s side and slams into the pavement. It seals the tunnel.

He feels the angels and demons snuff out of the world. Then he surges forward, sliding across the wood floors as fast as he can. Aziraphale reaches for him, but can barely lift his arm.

“Angel,” makes its way out of serpentine lips. Crowley coils his tail up and holds it over Aziraphale’s back. It’s harder to touch an aura without fingers, but there is no time to waste. He finds where Aziraphale’s pain blooms from the wounds and Crowley glares at it. The muscles bind and the blood soaks back into the wound, joining the skin behind its return. Crowley is shaking with the effort it takes. His body falls to the floor and he lets his head drop as well.

Aziraphale is still bleeding from the shoulder, but he is breathing easier. Crowley grunts as he tries to bid his body up and around to tend to the other wound.

“It’s superficial,” Aziraphale mutters, rolling up onto his side with a groan of pain. The injury is tucked under him, but Crowley’s tongue darts out. He can taste pain, too much blood, and sore muscles.

“S’not,” he replies and lifts his head and tail again. There is a bit of Bentley’s power still lingering at the edges of his scales. He winds it around Aziraphale’s aura and wound. Aziraphale sighs as the pain fades away. This time, Crowley lets his exhaustion take him under and he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure that I subscribe to the "Crowley was Raphael" fan theory. I do like the idea that he was out hanging stars and hanging with some of the other 10 million angels who agreed with Lucifer. So, for this story, Crowley is NOT Raphael, but had some power.
> 
> The bit of Crowley not being a local leader is a paraphrase of Uncle Terry and Neil. Actually, so is the bit about Pestilence's retirement due to antibiotics.
> 
> HISTORY BITS:  
> The future King George IV (called Bertie) really had to beg Elizabeth to marry him. Not because of his stutter (you film fans, check out The King's Speech), but because she did not want to be in royal spotlight. Of course, the spot of bother with Edward VIII (or Bertie's big brother) centered around his decision to love a divorced American... so he abdicated the throne. And, yeah, he was a fan of Hitler. 
> 
> The Great Smog of London was a weather event that caused by a worst case scenario of cold weather + no wind + atmospheric rotation known as an "anticyclone" + coal pollution. It cased thousands of cases of respiratory issues and caused an honest political crisis. 
> 
> University College Hospital is famous because the amazing Agatha Christie worked there during WWII. She swore she was doing her bit for the war, but later admitted she was there to study poisons. 
> 
> The candlestick phone is the coolest invention ever. I read a comment from Mr. Gaiman via Tumblr that if Aziraphale were gifted a mobile phone it would be in the box neatly tucked away next to his unused e-reader. I figured he would be using the eldest technology... upon rewatching the film, however, he has a princess phone. Which, honestly, isn't surprising either. 
> 
> Aziraphale is a warrior and I interpret that to mean he served at multiple times in history. I mention the following: WWI (Flanders), the Crimean War--specifically the Battle of Balaclava, and, finally, Julius Caesar's attempt to take Britannia from Gaul (France)... the boats that launched from Caletum (modern day Calais). Next, he and Crowley have stuff from their long lives... google any of those words and spend hours learning history. 
> 
> The love song that the Bentley says good bye with is "Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow."


	5. HEAVEN, CONFERENCE ROOM ALPHA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell debrief the Battle at the Bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This assumes that Heaven has wiped all memories of fallen angels' identities from angels'.

Uriel is in her usual chair in Conference Room Alpha. She is seated between Gabriel and Metatron, who is silent beside her. Gabriel is staring into the distance. Occasionally, he reaches up to rearrange his stack of paper, but his heart does not appear to be in it.

Michael enters the room leading Sandalphon, Beelzebub, and Dagon. They’re about six minutes late. Beelzebub takes the seat directly across from Uriel. Michael and Dagon take the next available chairs. Sandalphon glares at Beelzebub for stealing his usual seat. He slumps next to Metatron and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Well,” Beelzebub buzzes as Dagon slides manila folders across to everyone at the table, “it didn’t go well.”

“Ya think?” Gabriel snarls. “We lost twelve angels!”

Dagon blinks at him sternly. “Officially, and this is very important, there were only eight present.”

Sandalphon snorts, “well, there were fourteen on the ground. I was there.”

Dagon glares at him. “Officially, there were eight angels present and six demons. No more.”

“There certainly were more than that,” Sandalphon gripes. Dagon glares harder.

Gabriel sighs dramatically. “It was more than enough firepower there to take out a principality and a garden-variety demon.”

Beelzebub pulls out their laptop and joins a Zoom meeting. “Hail Satan,” they exclaim. Dagon leans into the screen and echos the sentiment. Satan just growls out the laptop speaker. Beelzebub slides the laptop toward Dagon who turns the screen to face the group.

“Ugh,” Gabriel offers with a false grin and finger wave, “welcome back. It’s been a while.”

The blank look Beelzebub directs at Gabriel contains multitudes. Uriel covers her mouth with her hand and looks at the floor. Metatron assumes that she is trying to sneeze and offers her a handkerchief.

“Right,” Satan snarls, “I want to know who fucked this up so royally?”

Multiple angels shift uneasily in their seats. Michael appears unfazed. Dagon actually seems to be reevaluating Michael at that moment. Uriel raises an eyebrow. Dagon shrugs. Great, just what they need. Inner-office romance.

“Well,” Gabriel says, leaning forward in a managerial shrug, “Aziraphale is a Principality and who knows what that demon has taught him.”

Satan offers his own blank look. “Jesus, Gabriel,” he snorts in some semblance of a laugh, “you haven’t changed any in these millenniums.”

Gabriel looks affronted. “You barely know me.”

Uriel rolls her eyes but regrets it when she sees the company of confused looks from Satan, Dagon, Beelzebub, and, strangely, Michael.

“Come again?” Satan asks, annoyed. “You and I designed and implemented the primordial singularity… before there was light? Remember?”

Gabriel is staring at Satan’s image on the screen with his mouth hanging open. Satan turns his red face off-screen as if he’s hurt. He seems to shuffle this feeling away and turns forward again.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a demon kicked your angel’s asses. Heaven was always underprepared. The Hell constituents, though, that's embarrassing. We lost once already, I do not need to hear about how badly they screwed the pooch again. Dagon, we need to talk about which legion you sent up,” Satan sniffs, annoyed.

Gabriel makes a high pitched squeak, “We were at the Big Bang?”

Uriel is staring at Michael. Michael looks back at her calmly, as if waiting for Uriel to catch on. It is a sudden realization.

“I remember,” Uriel states. Her voice breaks. “I remember. I remember _you_.” She is staring at the laptop.

Satan grins at her. “And Dagon? Beelzebub?”

Gabriel's violet eyes open wide, then he slowly enunciates their former names. All three demons wince. Satan sticks a finger in his ear and wiggles it around.

“Don’t blow the eardrums, eh, mate?”

Metatron is still looking lost. Michael and Beelzebub are both staring at Uriel. She rubs her hands across her face.

“The demon Crowley,” she begins, “was with us in the beginning. He was a Maker.”

No one denies it. She cannot believe that she forgot. She thinks of other names and faces forgotten.

Michael takes up her line of thinking, “And the Principality Aziraphale has access to his powers.”

Everyone at the table (and on-screen) turns to face her.

“What are you talking about?” Sandalphon snaps. “That is impossible.”

“Oh shit,” Beelzebub and Uriel say simultaneously. Metatron’s eyes bug out from his head.

Satan seems to be thinking about this reality before he groans. “Oh, gross.” He sounds like a ten-year-old boy. “They’re fucking!”

Sandalphon looks like he might vomit. Dagon flinches. Gabriel seems to be working on an inspired idea.

Michael taps the file that Dagon delivered to them. “We want a war. Our Mother is silent. We decided to eliminate the Earth-stationed powers. What is our next step?”

Satan clears his throat and when Uriel glances his way, he is scratching a horn thoughtfully. “Perhaps we are looking at this the wrong way. What if we just misdirect Crowley and Aziraphale?”

Gabriel meets Satan’s gaze over the laptop. “I have an idea.”


	6. EARTH, SOHO, LONDON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell are not as creative as Aziraphale and Crowley credited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone.

Aziraphale aches. The floor is cold and hard under his cheek. He blinks repeatedly to focus. The gray of near dawn makes the room shadowy. The first thing he sees is his hand, which is still wrapped around the grip of the sword’s hilt.

Just beyond the point of the blade is a pile of misprinted Bibles. They are oddly soothing. Aziraphale lifts his arm and reaches out for the last place he remembers seeing Crowley. He groans as his muscles protest. His arm brushes his wing, which lays limply across his back.

Finally, his fingers brush scales and Aziraphale pushes up from the floor, onto his forearm.

“Crowley, my dearest,” he says hoarsely. Crowley is constricted into a criss-cross of coils, tightly wound around himself. Aziraphale rubs down his body and Crowley shakily lifts his head.

“Angel,” he whispers, his voice cracking, “you need to rest.”

Aziraphale levers himself up to a sitting position with another groan. It takes effort, but he folds his wings out of the physical plane. He glances down at his light blue button-down shirt. His golden blood has corroded as it has dried on his side.

“Good thing I took off the coat,” he comments, attempting at humor. He looks back toward where he left the outer layers of clothing and freezes.

Rugs, bookshelves, chairs, tables, and desks, not to mention the thousands of treasures from their lifetimes, are gone. The walls are devoid of color and the glass from the windows is missing. Even the nasty smells and dust have disappeared. The bookshop is gone.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley apologizes, with nearly the same intonation that he’d told Aziraphale that the same shop had burnt down. “I had to…”

“Yes,” Aziraphale wonders, as he stands, “she gave herself up to save us.”

“You, Angel. To save you.” Crowley squirms near to him and leans his head against Aziraphale’s ankle.

“She saved the books,” he whispers with wonder. Every edition is neatly stacked in the center of the room. He leans down and absently opening a first-edition of Oscar Wilde’s _An Ideal Husband._ He stroked the 1899 copyright page before turning the same reverence to Crowley’s spine. “She saved you.”

Crowley reared up as best he could and butted his head against Aziraphale’s chin.

“The Bentley helped,” he added.

Aziraphale leaned back in surprise. “The Bentley is…also…”

Crowley tapped his tail on the tabletop that is now sealed into the floor. “Saved us. They saved us.”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh before walking over to collect his waistcoat, bowtie, and coat. “Strange,” he comments, turning the cloth over in his hands, “to save these things but let themselves go.”

Crowley grunts and Aziraphale faces him while sliding his shoulders into the sleeves of his waistcoat.

“My dear, are you all right?”

Snakes cannot pout, but Crowley is not really a snake. “Still can’t change back.”

Aziraphale hums as he fastens the buttons at his waist. “You overdid it, darling,” then he pauses and steps back toward the demon, “actually that would make a stuffed bird laugh.”

“It would what?” Crowley queries in equal parts sarcasm and surprise. “Stuffed bird?”

Aziraphale long ago learned to ignore most of what Crowley noted with a snarky remark—especially about his out of date language. Instead, he feels around Crowley’s aura; he is not an expert in the way the demon is, but he can identify exhaustion from depleted power stores and, just there, a blessing.

“Ah, well, yes, I believe that your original curse has been reinforced,” he comments, running his hand over the spot where the blessing has embedded. “I think I can…”

And he focuses his intent on the spot. Crowley yelps.

“Oh! Oh, Crowley! I am terribly sorry, are you in pain?”

Crowley pulls his tail and lower body in and tucks in tightly. “Just burned for a moment.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the demon’s head before rising again to put on his coat. That he won’t try that again, comes without saying.

With a snap, the remaining books add themselves to the ethereally-expanded carryall and he grabs it by the handle. The once-flaming sword slides into its scabbard and disappears from the physical plane. That only leaves the bowtie, which he stuffs into his pocket.

“Come on then,” he suggests, leaning down to offer his arm. “We’ll have to find a ride.”

Crowley wriggles his way up Aziraphale’s arm and winds around his shoulders and chest. “Any idea where we’re off to then?”

Aziraphale shifts his weight to off-set the luggage and a very large snake. “I was thinking we should drop in on a certain Anti-Christ.”

Crowley flicks out his tongue. “I’m not disagreeing, but he does not have his powers anymore.”

“Well, perhaps not. But they,” he gestures up to the sky and then to the floor beneath them, “centered so many things around Tadfield before. Adam and Warlock were born there. The world would end there. And we both know that they’re not original thinkers. I say we go there.”

Crowley doesn’t argue, so Aziraphale takes it as acceptance. They linger in the doorway, looking back over the empty room. In the center of the room is the tabletop, locked forever into the floorboards.

“I bought that table in France, you know,” Aziraphale offers conversationally. It sounds forced and he grimaces.

He notices that Crowley is not looking into the bookshop, but out at the pavement. He turns. The Bentley is missing from its parking spot. On the pavement, just beyond the entrance, is one of its doors. Like the tabletop, it is embedded in the pavement surface.

“I had you from new,” Crowley marvels, in a mellow, sad way.

“It saved you,” Aziraphale reminds him as he pulls the broken door shut behind them. “Perhaps you could call us one of those Übermensch cars?”

Crowley corrects the angel under his breath before he shrugs as best he can without shoulders, “My phone is in my pocket.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale wheedles, “I suppose we’ll take the train?”

Crowley is offended. “The train? On the British railway system?” His voice is rising to near hysteria, “I’ve lost my car and am stuck as a snake and you threaten me with traveling to _Oxfordshire_ by train?”

“Have you any better suggestions?”

Crowley grumbles as they walk and Aziraphale catches random comments from “why must I always come up with the plans” and “be my blessed luck that the rail will be down for maintenance and we’ll end up on a bus for six hours”.

Aziraphale lets him grumble.

They are heading for the Oxford Circus Tube station when Crowley asks if they can stop by his flat first. It’s not really out of the way and they can use the Bond Street station instead. The walk is quiet. Clearly both in their own thoughts as they travel. Perhaps that is why they’re caught unawares by the police.

“Right, you there! You need a face covering,” the officer yells, sharply.

“I haven’t got one and I’m just going to that flat around the—“

“What? Are you American?” the police officer interrupts. Aziraphale is properly offended. The officer holds out a paper mask. “Either put this on or these on!” He points to his waist where his handcuffs hang.

Aziraphale offers his bland, yet sarcastic smile before reaching for the mask. He would offer thanks, but the officer interrupts that line of thought.

“Is that a great ruddy snake?” the cop shouts, nearly falling backward. “Bleeding Nora!”

Crowley is not engaging with this outcry, but instead flicking his tongue out down the street. He weaves around Aziraphale’s head and leans toward his building. Aziraphale hooks the mask over his ears and looks in the same direction the demon is.

Fire brigade trucks, police cars, and ambulances line the street. A multitude of lights flash across the facades of the nearby buildings. Humans, some wrapped in silver blankets, huddle on the pavement. All of them are wearing emergency-services-issued masks and many in their pajamas. None of them look happy. Aziraphale can feel their grief engulf him.

“What exactly happened here?” Aziraphale asks, slowly. Crowley leans into his cheek, obviously feeling the same emotion.

The cop is staring at Crowley, clearly uncomfortable, “Giant gas explosion in the building of flats there.”

Aziraphale reaches over and squeezes a portion of Crowley’s body. He feels muscles and vertebrae under his palm.

“I am, umm, watering my partner’s plants while he is away,” he lies, poorly, “any chance I can pop in?”

An ambulance pulls out from its parking spot and Aziraphale can finally see beyond it. Crowley sucks in a gasp. His building is nothing but rubble.

The officer reads Aziraphale’s face and his eyes frown. “I’m sorry, mate.”

Aziraphale must nod, but he doesn’t remember it. He simply turns on his heel and walks back the way he came.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he mummers, stroking Crowley’s belly, “I am so sorry. Your beautiful plants were my favorite garden in the whole city.”

Crowley is holding himself very still, but his scales seem to vibrate under Aziraphale’s hand. A man in a Hi-Vis vest is riding a bike past them. He sees a giant snake wrapped around a man like a shaw and directly collides with a parked car. This seems to snap Crowley out of his daze.

“Nothing for it. Hastur said he was coming for us.”

Aziraphale nods, sadly, “He isn’t like you. He killed so many people last night.”

Crowley offers no response, which is unsettling in itself. They walk on in silence. Honestly, it’s nearly a plod. Not only is his body battle fatigued, but his spirit is also low too. No bookshop. No Bentley. Now Crowley’s flat and that beautiful Mona Lisa print, all destroyed. A dark cloud passes over Aziraphale’s heart. Crowley must feel this because he tightens a coil around Aziraphale’s bicep.

“Angel,” Crowley hisses, and then jerks his head to the left, “into the car park. Let’s find a ride.”

The direction seems to help motivate Aziraphale. He still feels weary, but at least he has a goal. Dawn has broken between some of the tall buildings that surround them, but the interior of the car park is still only lit by the overhead fluorescent lights. One of them buzzes as they pass under it.

Crowley is stretching forward, so Aziraphale continues to walk in the direction he is pointing. He looks at vehicle after vehicle, clearly rejecting each one. They go up two levels before Crowley begins to slither down Aziraphale’s front.

“Steady,” the angel grouses, “I nearly stepped on you, you infernal serpent.”

Crowley glides toward a sharp-looking red car. “Oh you beauty,” he swoons.

He climbs up the bonnet and leers into the windscreen. His long body is draped across the headlights. He curls his tail up across his body and points in at the gearbox. “Oh, you lovely thing.” His tail strokes the windscreen.

“I do believe this is the same car that spy fellow you liked so much drove: James Bard,” Aziraphale notes, dropping the carryall on the ground and leaning on a nearby estate car.

Crowley looks over his coils and snarls, “Bond, Angel.”

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale corrects, “Bond James Bard, as it were.”

Crowley stares at him unblinking before letting his tail slide off the bonnet and onto the ground near the driver's door. As he does so, he shifts. It’s like he’s pouring his coils off the car and into human legs. Aziraphale wiggles with glee, pulls his face mask free, and smiles for the first time in the last hour.

“Oh thank heavens! I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to carry you all day. We were very conspicuous, but I suppose you couldn’t shrink down anyhow?”

Crowley stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders. His hips lean in one direction and his torso in another. Assorted body parts crack and pop. Aziraphale takes in the view, clearly ogling Crowley’s naked arse. He was still being conspicuous, but less scaly.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the show, old boy,” he begins, his voice warm and slightly hungry, “but I do believe there is a CCTV camera around the bend.”

Crowley grins over his bare shoulder before flicking his serpentine tongue out at the angel. He snaps and he is dressed once again from boots to sunglasses.

“I got a boost from the flat,” he explains with another roll of his shoulders. “All that despair.” A shadow crosses his face but is gone as quickly as it arrived. They are long versed in ignoring what upsets, worries, or irritates them. Thousands of years worth of practice will do that. Aziraphale changes the subject and gestures toward the car.

“Is this one of yours then?”

Crowley stops short of the door, “I have only had _one_ car, Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, then lifts his carryall and walks around to the passenger side. They have always relied on banter, but much like the night after they averted the Apocalypse, Aziraphale is too tired to work out a way to turn this into a witticism. The door is unlocked because Crowley expects it to be unlocked. Aziraphale reaches around and places the bag on the seat behind him.

Satisfied that the books are secure, he slides into the leather seat. He makes a delighted sound, “Seatbelts!”

Crowley growls, “Those are _not_ original.”

The angel buckles in and wiggles into his seat. “All the same, they’re very nice.”

Crowley glances at the dials on the dash and the car roars to life. He strokes the steering wheel and the car rumbles cheerfully.

“My dear,” Aziraphale warns, “perhaps we ought to get a move on before the, umm, owner we are borrowing this from arrives?”

Crowley snaps dramatically. “It’s mine now.” Aziraphale both knows better than to argue and is too tired to try. No doubt the owner just found money in their bank and a receipt of the sale in with their important documents. Crowley never did anything halfway. It will have to do, in this instance.

Aziraphale pulls the door shut as Crowley pulls out of the space and out of the car park.

“ _Miraculous_ , really,” he wonders with tired mischief in his eyes, “that such a specific car would be found in an average car park. Very unusual.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “It was about time that something went in our favor.”

With a slightly-disapproving purse on his lips, Aziraphale looks out the window and does not pursue the conversation.

They speed out of London with more ease than usual. Lockdown coupled with the early hour means fewer people on the road. Crowley takes advantage of it and the Aston Martin purrs. The car practically flies up the M40. It’s a smooth ride. Aziraphale finds himself drowsing. His head feels heavy, so he leans back again to the headrest.

“Angel,” Crowley mummers, “rest.” And he waves his hand over Aziraphale’s face.

Sleep pulls him under. He floats peacefully, but sometimes nearly buoyant above the waves of repose. Moments of music drift through his conscious and sometimes the rush of acceleration. Occasionally, he feels the brush of air as Crowley waves him back under into slumber.

As they slow and merge onto the A40, Aziraphale wakes. Vivaldi plays a bright tune.

“I thought you hated ‘the Four Seasons’,” he comments with a yawn.

Crowley smiles at him, loose and tired, “It’s Radio Three. You know how it is.”

Aziraphale studies the demon. There has been a stillness around him since they had dinner at the Ritz those months ago. Sure, he is still as mischievous as ever, but this is balanced with a softness that he had always hidden. Today, though, he’s back to the taunt angles and lines that he was in the years before Adam and Warlock’s eleventh birthday. Aziraphale rephrases that in his head. The softness appeared after their trials (or the shams thereof) and a certain park bench. It’s disappointing to see Crowley wearing his anxiety like a suit once more.

“About twenty minutes,” Crowley announces as he drums out the downbeat to the symphony on the steering wheel. “I’ve been questioning how we drop in on a kid during a lockdown.”

“Perhaps we can stop for some breakfast first?” Aziraphale’s stomach rumbles as if on demand.

Crowley smirks before pulling onto the slip road toward Tadfield. “You think better on a full English?”

Aziraphale hums. “Something like that.”Somewhere along their journey, Crowley locates a suitable looking cafe. It’s a local coffee shop which advertises fresh baked goods and hot tea. The high street around it is blissfully empty of people. Crowley glides into the parking spot, right off the pavement, and turns off the engine. Aziraphale should comment that this is clearly a “no parking” area but changes his mind when he sees Crowley rubbing at his eyes under his sunglasses.

“Tea or coffee, my dear?” Aziraphale queries, hand already on the door handle.

With his other hand, Crowley holds up the face mask the police officer had originally given him. “A latte? Very big. Lots of caffeine.” His sunglasses drop back into place and he gives a weary smile.

Aziraphale grabs the face mask and slides it over his ears. “Extra espresso then, just in case.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley watch him as he walks to the door of the cafe. There is a clear sign posted about limiting persons inside the shop and that all orders will be take away. Undeterred, the angel enters to the jingle of the bell over the door.

A middle-aged woman waves at him from behind the counter. “Breakfast, love?”

Their beverages are easy to order and he does so almost without conscious thought. That leaves him to ponder the options in the bakery case before making his selections. The pain au chocolates look divine, but so do the Chelsey buns. He ends up with two of each.

As the espresso machine grinds and sputters, Aziraphale looks back toward the Aston Martin. The morning sun is shining into the car and Crowley is basking. His head is pillowed by the window. He is breathing deeply and slowly, nearly asleep. In this light, his ginger hair matches the paint on the car. Aziraphale feels his heart clutch in his chest. He gives a lovesick sigh just as a teenaged girl burst from through the door behind the counter.

“Mum!” she shouts, “Godzilla is attacking!”

The woman behind the counter looks a bit miffed at her daughter and scolds her for being down in the cafe in her pajamas, but the girl ignores this in favor of waving her mobile around. Finally, she grabs for the remote to the television on the shop wall. 

“Seriously! It’s in London!”

The mother slides Aziraphale’s paper travel cups across the counter and he sets to doctoring his tea. Above the counter where the cream and sugar rest, the television screen flickers on. After a polite message requesting patience, the girl is able to search out Sky News.

“My Laura is a bit overdramatic,” the cafe owner apologizes, before handing over the bag of bakery items. “It’s a bit much this early in the morning.” Aziraphale offers, what he hopes is, a sympathetic look from behind his mask. He shuffles the bag into the crook of his arm to lift the two cups.

In this instance though, Laura is not being overdramatic. The screen shows a live video feed from a helicopter that is circling over the Thames River. Below the video, the live news ticker summarizes the event. Aziraphale skims them:

LONDON POLICE ARE ADVISING RESIDENTS STAY IN THEIR HOME - A SPOKESMAN FOR LONDON STATES THAT THE CITY IS CLOSED - OFFICIAL TALLIES ARE STILL DUE BUT SOURCES STATE 17 DEAD, 90 INJURED IN THE BOROUGH OF LAMBETH - WITNESSES CLAIM THE LIZARD IS 300 M (984 FT) IN HEIGHT

The video is shaky. It zooms out and there is a giant beast looming over the city. Its ten horns are dripping water as if it’s just arisen from the river. Its seven heads twist in every direction; one mouth snaps at the helicopter.

Aziraphale does not breathe for a moment, before turning hastily on his heel and rushing to the car. He is so focused on getting back to Crowley that he does not even offer goodbye to the cafe owner.

Crowley lifts his head from the glass as Aziraphale joins him. Without warning, Aziraphale blurts, “They’ve released the Great Beast on London.”

Crowley’s hand is reaching for his latte, but it stutters. They stare at each other for a moment.

“We are going to need alcohol,” Crowley grumbles before taking his coffee in one hand and turning on the radio with the other.

_“—cordoned off all areas south of Westminster. Residents are asked to continue to shelter at home. Those in the Lambeth Road areas are encouraged to seek additional shelter in marked air raid shelters. Be advised that Waterloo Station is damaged and will not be open as a shelter. The Royal Air Force is currently engaging the creature—“_

Aziraphale reaches over to turn the knob on the radio. It clicks off.He sips his tea. Crowley lifts his latte to his lips.

“That’s the Beast of the Sea,” he notes, after taking a drink.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees.

The Aston Martin’s engine starts. Crowley pulls out onto the road without checking for traffic. Aziraphale drinks his tea instead of chastising him. There’s no one on the road anyway.

Crowley looks a bit crazed as he drives one-handed. The other cradles his paper travel cup. He is speeding. The odometer exceeds even Crowley’s usual ninety-miles-an-hour. Aziraphale finds he cannot care. The Great Beast has been loosed. On England— _London_ —their _home_!

In need of distraction, he pulls on his seatbelt and then finds a pastry in the bag to consume. The shops flash by, then the rows of brick houses, and then, the widening countryside and rolling green hills. The English countryside stretches out before them.

That’s when the first earthquake begins. Crowley’s face contorts in confusion. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel before he realizes what is happening. Aziraphale grabs the door handle in alarm.

“Oh really! I thought they’d go off plan!” the angel shouts in annoyance.

Crowley slows and pulls onto the layby. It’s not much of one, as the road into Lower Tadfield is winding and small. Out of the windscreen, Aziraphale sees the trees lurch and groan. The dashboard trembles. Crowley parks.

“Far less creative than we gave them credit for,” Crowley muses. “I thought after last night that they might try something new.”

“Maybe that was in the original plan too,” Aziraphale replies. He takes the plastic lid off his paper cup and watches the ripples in his tea.

The car sways with the land. Somewhere off in the field, the ground cracks open. The already-frightened sheep run away from this new fissure and toward a stone fence in the distance. Crowley drinks and watches them scatter. The road rolls under them like a wave.

Slowly, the shaking ends like slowly cascades. Aziraphale finished his pain au chocolate and tea. Crowley restarts the car. As they meander down the winding road into Lower Tadfield, Crowley reaches over for Aziraphale’s hand. Without a word, he twists their fingers together. Neither of them mentions that they are both still trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> -An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde first edition is for sale on Etsy at the time I wrote this. I do not have $6,000, but maybe you do.
> 
> \- The British Railway system and I have a love/hate relationship. I love it until I am stuck on the train at a dead stop for hours, yet only moments away from my station. 
> 
> \- The car that the boys abscond with is a 1964 Aston Martin DB5 (e.g. the car Bond drives in Goldfinger); seat belts were an addition much later.
> 
> \- I was inspired to write the ticker tape for the beast attack after a student mentioned not knowing anything of the London bombings on 7/11. I showed him photos and many of them included the scrolling news. Very sobering and sad. (I'm American and this student was from the Caymans.)


	7. HELL, DAGON’S OFFICE

Hastur is skulking outside the door to Dagon’s office. She pretends not to see him. He smells like molding dog shit. And if someone stinks in Hell, that is saying something. She idly wonders if she can force him to bathe. With the right wording on the report, she thinks, it could be classified as torture. The idea holds some merit.

Before she can begin to type out such a plan, he throws open the door and barges in. Dagon tries to hold her breath so avoid the stench.

“Crawly is alive,” he growls. The toad on his head does something with its chin.

Dagon stares disgustedly at the toad before meeting Hastur’s eyes. “It’s being handled.”

The toad on Hastur’s head turns its hyperopia vision onto Dagon. She glares back.

“I can kill him,” Hastur offers. His lips are upturned—is that a _smile_? The toad continues to do that weird rapid movement of its chin. Then a bubble appears from its vocal sac. "Torture him. Make him scream. I could scale him, like a fish."

This makes Dagon glare, but Hastur has apparently forgotten her nature.

He carries on, "Rip out his spine, the dumb snake."

“No one is killing Crawly,” she replies, shuffling papers around to avoid looking at the reptile. Honestly, it makes the scales around her eyes itch. "Well, no one is directly killing Crawly."

Hastur immediately begins to snarl, “He murdered Ligur. No one has punished him! It’s—“

“You’ve murdered hundreds of demons,” she snaps. "No one punished you."

“It’s different,” he sulks. She rolls her eyes.

“We released the Great Beast of the Sea on him today. It’s being handled,” she finally states, thinly.

Hastur looks pleased. The toad does that bubble thing again and Dagon has had enough.

“Get out of my office,” she snaps, repulsed.

Hastur frowns. His toad makes another vocal sac bubble. Dagon throws a stapler at Hastur’s head. He retreats. 

It is curious, she notes, that the solution to deal with the traitor and the angel was to go hands-off. Everyone had agreed though, so who was she to question? She scratches lazily at her lateral line at her hip and grabs the mobile off of her desk.

Michael picks up on the second ring.

“I think we need some insurance,” she suggests.

“Funny,” Michael agrees, “I was just thinking the same thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely, I'm beginning to think I ship Dagon/Michael... hmm.


	8. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, JASMINE COTTAGE

Anathema Device is a pacifist.

Newton Pulsifer is passive.

Those are not the same thing.

This is not why their relationship ended (if a relationship it could be called). Actually, it was Agnes’ fault. The envelope that accompanied part two of Agnes Nutter’s prophesies were addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer”. Anathema did not want to be a descendent any longer. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to get married. Agnes jumped from “a few nights' stand” to “spouse”. It rubbed Anathema the wrong way. In some way, she must have held Newt responsible.

All relationships, romantic or otherwise, have difficulties. When Newt and she hit a rough patch, she did not fight as hard as she could have to get him to stay. And Newt never fought for what he wanted anyway. His three-wheeled car was packed and gone before the afternoon was over.

Anathema did not feel guilty.

She took a job at a shop in city centre until Lockdown began. Then, being independently wealthy, she enjoyed her time in quarantine not being a descendent.

Except that she was very much a descendent, no matter what she hoped. The dreams are proof of that.

The first night is flashes:

 _First_ \- A larger-than-usual Aziraphale bleeding from the torso. He grabs desperately for a sword that is just out of reach. Another equally large angel charging, sword raised, for a giant black snake.

 _Second_ \- Adam hiding in the water closet under the stairs of his parents' house. The house is shaking around them. Dust falls from the ceiling. He holds his hands out and pushes. Nothing happens. His eyes flash red and then grey-blue. Frustrated, he screams. He winces, then another flash of red streaks across his eyes again as he tries to push once more.

 _Third_ \- A broken stone circle lit by the break of dawn. Pepper and Brian standing before it, each holding a bloodied dagger. Crowley leans against a tall stone, weeping.

 _Fourth_ \- Dirk Turpin crushed beneath a pile of rubble.

She wakes crying.

The next night is a dream of her walking through the empty streets of Miami. Flaming hailstones fall around her. She is impervious to their strike, but she flinches from each stone anyway. Palm trees burn. Lightning streaks the sky without thunder. Suddenly, Anathema knows, in the way that someone dreaming always knows, that she is in labor. She looks down at the hands that press against her waist and sees they are covered in blood.

She wakes up in her bed. She is balled up in the fetal position, clutching her belly.

Then on this last night, she is back at the entrance to the weathered stone circle. She studies the circle. Some of the stones are long gone, while others are whittled down to sharp edges and holes. Pine trees tower behind them. There is a worn path out of the circle of eroded stones. Mist dances around the edges of it.

She knows she could follow it out into the world. This is her choice…

If she follows the trail, she will have no further dreams. Whatever that is coming will come without her help.

She looks to the center of the limestone stones. In the grass is her copy of Agnes’ second prophecies. They are burning away to ash, just as they did in reality. This is the other choice: step into the ring and become a player.

This is her choice.

She takes her first step into the center of the circle and abruptly wakes. The walls of her bedroom are shaking in an earthquake. She does not question that Adam is currently trying to force his power over the quaking from the water closet under his parents’ stairs. Such is the life of a descendent. 


	9. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, CITY CENTRE

Crowley guides the Aston Martin into the village of Lower Tadfield. He notes the sign from the pub, the Bugle and Steed, has been shaken loose on one side. It swings lazily and drums against the wall of the pub. A few Victorian-era chimney pipes and Edwardian era bricks lay in pieces along the pavement. Some unfortunate vehicles have taken direct hits from the fallen debris. Overall, though, the village looks relatively undamaged.

Aziraphale looks at the village church in concern.

“It made it through the dissolution of the monasteries, angel,” Crowley assures, “it’ll survive a little quake.”

Aziraphale nods but continues to stretch to look over the wall between the road the church yard. “I’m checking that the dead are still in their graves,” he informs, matter-of-factly. The comment turns Crowley cold, so he does not reply.

They are rolling through town with Crowley barely touching the accelerator. He’s not sure why he feels they need to slow down, but he does. Perhaps it’s because the village streets are still sleeping. The shops unanimously announce they will not open until nine. The local chippy proudly declares (1) they are open for takeaway and (2) they have the best hamburgers outside the States (they have the Yelp reviews to support this, even if it seems incongruous in a residential country village). They amble past a school. It has a large, hastily-made sign on the gate that declares “Stay safe! We love our students, staff, and community!” It makes Aziraphale smile.

Lower Tadfield is not large by any means. A child on a bicycle could easily traverse the length and breadth of it in twenty or so minutes. The Aston Martin is through it even faster. Even so, it is eager for speed again. Crowley strokes the door panel and coos to it.

“I know, sweetheart, soon.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and then points right at the next intersection.

“That way, dear boy.”

Crowley dramatically and mockingly raises his own eyebrows so that they may be seen above his sunglasses. “Oh? Did you have a burning bush direct you?”

“No, but the young witch, Ms. Device is standing over yon beckoning us.”

Crowley does a double-take. Sure enough, Anathema is waving patiently at them, like a mother at the school’s gate. She’s dressed in her usual long skirt and puffy-sleeved jacket. Today, she’s also tied an embroidered Bohemian scarf around her head and across her face. Her dark glasses peach neatly above it.

“Bloody fortunetellers,” Crowley mutters and turns right toward her. He parks in the center of the road without pulling over. Aziraphale is out of the vehicle first and cheerfully calls to the witch.

Crowley unfolds from the driver’s seat. His muscles protest. His head swims and aches from lack of sleep. Passing out from overexertion the night before did not really count as rest. He won’t sleep much tonight either, he knows. Danger and anxiety pulses in him like a drumbeat. He knows he is not alone in those feelings. He sees the way Aziraphale wrings his hands over his belly and the way Anathema repeatedly adjusts her glasses.

“So who knew,” Anathema jests, “a giant sea monster with multiple heads lived in London?”

Crowley cannot find it in himself to so much as curl his lips in a smirk. His limbs are heavy and his reaction time slowing. Ignorant of this, Aziraphale offers Anathema his hand to shake before immediately retracting it with a frown. She does not seem to notice. Crowley leans back against the bonnet of the Aston Martin and shoves his hands into his pockets. He draws on demonic energy and channels it into speech.

“There’s more to come. Locusts and blood seas, loss of light, and maybe crazy hallucinations. And that’s just if the Head Offices decide to stick with the original plan.” He speaks carelessly, then looks to Aziraphale for his additions to the list of potential end-of-world events. The angel only nervously fidgets with the loose bowtie in his coat pocket. Crowley slouches further against the car.

“I’ve had some,” Anathema looks uncertain, “dreams? Visions? In the last few nights. But I don’t want to talk about it here.”

So they find themselves in Anathema’s kitchen, seated around her table. Honestly, Crowley’s not sure how they got there. He vaguely remembers driving, but specifics elude him. He concentrates and remembers walking in the front door of Jasmine Cottage. He could let it bother him but decides it’s not worth the effort.

Aziraphale is filling her in on the events of the previous night. Once the retelling mentions the demise of the bookshop, Crowley tunes out. He has no need to rehash the loss of the shop, the Bentley, and his flat.

Instead, he slouches in his chair and lets Aziraphale’s voice wash over him. He can still see where the Aston Martin is parked through the kitchen window. Lazy lavender plants dot the front garden. They’re wide and leafy, but their flowers are nothing spectacular. The hedges seem to be carrying on in a quintessentially English manner. Healthy, but not too ostentatious; they have enough areas where the leaves are thin as moderation. If there were not more pressing issues at hand, Crowley might go out and give a lecture. He feels himself drifting. He’s unable to focus on the garden and even his own breathing.

Aziraphale reaches past his cup of tea and lays his hand on Crowley’s elbow. Crowley starts. His little jump shakes the table leg and tea splashes out of their mugs. Aziraphale does not react to any of this. His hand is steady and reassuring on Crowley’s arm.

“My dear,” he begins, but then pauses. Crowley is staring uncomprehendingly at the tea spill. “Crowley.”

This gentle iteration of his name snaps his attention to Aziraphale’s worried face. “Yes, angel?”

Anathema is standing. Crowley follows her with his eyes in confusion.

“The guest room is just this way,” she guides in such a way that suggests that she is repeating herself. She ducks around a low beam and leads them up a steep staircase. Crowley is slow to follow, but Aziraphale guides him with one hand resting in the small of Crowley’s back and the other lingering on his arm.

She points to a bathroom at the end of the hall before pushing open a door into a sunny bedroom. The ceiling is slanted and lined with blue floral wallpaper. There is a bed centered between two windows that look out onto the road and back garden. Along one side is an armchair and desk, and a wardrobe on the other. Crowley absently notes all this, instead of focusing on the pile of pillows barely a stride away from him. He yearns to sleep.

“It might be dusty,” Anathema is saying, but it seems to come from far away. Aziraphale snaps. Crowley is past any ability to process these actions. He stumbles forward and falls face-first into the duvet.

He hears the door close. He feels the bed beside him dip. Aziraphale snaps and the curtains close. The room is not dark but shadowed.

“Shove up,” Aziraphale orders gently. He pulls Crowley’s sunglasses off and then wiggles him about to free his heavy arms from his blazer. The boots go next and hit the floor with a pair of lazy thumps. There is rustling, but Crowley is drifting. Not dozing, but not fully awake. The duvet under him moves and the bed shifts.

Then, finally, Crowley is manhandled under the duvet and into Aziraphale’s arms. Immediately, deep sleep claims him.

He dreams of bare feet on hot sand and a breeze in palm fronds. He knows he is strolling side-by-side with Aziraphale without seeing him. It’s peaceful. It also smacks of a “dream of whatever you love best” miracle.

He wakes suddenly, knowing that Aziraphale is no longer in the bed beside him. Early evening sun peeks around the closed currents. Crowley drags himself from the bed and trips over his boots. Absently, he grabs his sunglasses and makes his way downstairs. In the process, he nearly brains himself on the low beam and then trips on a pile of books that were once housed in Aziraphale’s carryall.

“Easy there, my darling,” Aziraphale warns, looking at Crowley from overtop his reading spectacles. He’s seated in an armchair with two books open in his lap, stacked one inside the other. Anathema sits on the floor near the angel’s feet. Her hair is messily knotted on top her head, held in place with a pen, and her skirt spill around her. She has open books all around her, sometimes using the hem of the skirt to mark her place.

Crowley stumbles into the room, zig-zagging through multiple piles of Aziraphale’s books. Once in range, he steals the cup of cocoa from Aziraphale’s elbow. It’s nearly too cool, so Crowley throws the whole cup back in one swallow. Then, he balances on the arm of the angel’s chair. With an open hand, he gestures at the piles of books.

“Clearly, we’re researching,” he draws, amusedly.

“Yes, well, hmm,” Aziraphale pulls off his spectacles and searches around the room with his eyes. “Things have been in motion since this morning. My dear,” he addresses Anathema, “where is that computer?”

Anathema blinks the room back into focus, the text of her reading still lingering in her mind. “Oh, umm,” she digs under her pile of books and skirt. She retrieves a tablet, unlocks it, and hands it to Aziraphale. It is passed to Crowley.

The iPad is open to a page with a live news update. An embedded video at the top of the page automatically begins playing.

“—now at the top of the hour, we will be recapping the headlines. Our first story focuses on the large creatures attacking major cities in the world.”

The film cuts from the newscaster to footage of London and the multiple-headed monster (which is now terrorizing the London Eye and Westminster Bridge at Parliament), then to a giant mutant-looking sheep or maybe oxen-but-that-is-also-the-baby-of-a-leopard that paws at skyscrapers in Hong Kong, then to a part-whale-and-part-sea-serpent climbs out of the inlet of Rio de Janeiro. Crowley admits this is not what he wanted to wake up and see.

“Reports differ, but it is clear that thousands of people are now homeless and perhaps hundreds dead. National responses have differed, but here at home, the Royal Air Force has released a statement about additional inbound air support.

“Our second focus moves to the seismic activity around the world.”

Video pans across Pakistan where rescuers hunt for survivors of a massive mudslide, then to California where the amateur mobile-filmed video shows the Bay Bridge bowing and shaking, and finally, to Iceland, where Eyjafjallajökull is bellowing huge clouds of ash that blocks out the sun. Lava splashes out like splatters of orange paint. The video returns to the newscaster.

“Seismologists, geophysicists, and geologists are collectively sharing concern about additional activity from the Ring of Fire. Evacuations have begun in a number of nations in anticipation of tsunamis.

“We now turn to Number Nine for an update.”

The video changes to the famous door of Downing Street. The Prime Minister stands, masked, and ready to address the press. Before he can, he turns his eyes directly at Crowley, and his face changes. The hair reddens and the skin turns to scales.

Crowley grabs the tablet and throws himself out of the chair so that he is standing with his back to the wall and Aziraphale well out of the shot.

“Crawly,” Dagon growls, using the general shape of the Prime Minister.

“What do you want?” he snarls back.

The Prime Minster’s wife appears but is wearing the archangel Michael’s face. “This is very undignified,” she notes.

“It gets the job done,” Dagon replies.

“Demon,” Michael begins, nearly emotionlessly, “where is the Principality Aziraphale?”

Crowley stands on one foot and uses the other to hold Aziraphale in his chair. Anathema seems to realize what is about to happen and scrambles up from the floor to press her hand across Aziraphale’s mouth.

“What? The angel?” Crowley questions with faux-laziness. “He’s on a plane to China, I suspect to defeat the Beast of Land.”

Michael grimaces. “That’s a lie.”

Crowley shrugs and waves a hand at his chest, “Demon.”

Michael glares, “When will you next be in contact with him?”

Crowley purses his lips, “He told me he’d ring when he landed in Qatar. He likes their airline, you know. First-class is very posh—it has a shower on the aeroplane.”

“Shut up,” snaps Michael. Crowley’s face is impassive and blank. “He’s still in England. I can feel him.”

Crowley does not reply. Michael holds his gaze.

“I’m here to offer you a bargain,” Dagon interrupts. “If you two are done with your dick measuring.”

Michael snarls, “It’s less of a bargain and more of a life-or-death offer. You take it or I kill you.”

Dagon waves a hand at Michael to shush her. “In two hours it is going to begin to rain holy water and Hellfire hailstones.”

Anathema presses her hand harder to Aziraphale’s mouth and climbs up into his lap to hold him into the armchair. She nearly knocks Crowley over, so he staggers and stands on both feet.

“How is that a bargain?” he questions, trying to not seem off-balance in more than one way.

“Simply this,” Michael bites out, “you turn yourself over to the Great Beast of the Sea and we will delay the war.”

“For how long?” Crowley queries, completely ignoring the way Aziraphale is struggling against Anathema.

“Two-hundred thousand years,” Dagon and Michael say in tandem.

“And if I defeat the Beast?” Crowley asks, curiously. Michael laughs incredulously.

Dagon gestures with the Prime Minster’s hands, “We will delay.”

“And you’ll cancel the rain and hail?”

Aziraphale is kicking his feet and throwing his weight until the chair bucks. Anathema wraps around him like a boa constrictor. Crowley would be proud if he saw.

“Of course,” Dagon answers.

Crowley pauses and then finally asks, “And you will promise Aziraphale’s safety for the rest of eternity. You will leave him alone, alive and healthy.”

Michael is calm, almost pitying, “You have my word.”

“Then I will surrender.” His voice does not even shake.

“No!” Aziraphale screams as he throws Anathema across the room and she lands with a bounce on her sofa. “Crowley, no!”

Dagon reaches through the screen to bind the agreement and Crowley raises his hand to shake hers. Aziraphale smites the tablet. It sparks and smokes and Crowley drops it as it burns him. Dagon’s hand and wrist, which were through the screen, are sliced off and fall to the rug of the cottage in a puddle of black blood.

Aziraphale is out of the chair the very moment and grabs Crowley’s face in his hands.

“My darling, my heart’s darling, Crowley,” he repeats, pressing kisses to Crowley’s nose, cheeks, forehead, and chin. “No, never without you, my love. Never.”

He is running hands all over Crowley’s arms, neck, and torso as if looking for injuries. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s chest tightly. The demon rubs slow hands up and down his back.

“I would do anything, angel,” he whispers, “to keep you safe. I would do anything.”

They stand there, clinging to one another as the clock in the hall ticks the moments away.

Anathema clears her throat. “Is that a hand on my floor?”

Crowley’s eyes grow large and he shoves Aziraphale back from where he is standing. “Bless it, angel. Get away from that!”

He snaps and the smoldering tablet, as well as Dagon’s hand and blood-puddle disappear.

Anathema is muttering to herself about iPads, hands, and stupid agreements as she rubs both hands over her face. “I need alcohol.” She stumbles off the couch and into the kitchen.

Aziraphale watches her leave before returning his focus to Crowley. “Bargaining with Hell!” he suddenly yells. “What were you thinking? You did not even get it in writing!”

He stalks up to Crowley and pushes him in the chest. “Idiot serpent!”

“Yeah, yeah, all right! I didn’t think it through,” Crowley grumbles, slapping at Aziraphale’s hands. “Just wanted to keep you safe…”

“Bollocks,” Aziraphale shouts. It brings Crowley up short. He pulls his sunglasses off his face to stare at Aziraphale in awe.

Aziraphale meets Crowley’s shocked expression and both burst into laughter. They subdue. Crowley stows his sunglasses by hooking them on his shirt.

“They’re playing something,” he begins. “They want me in London.”

“They want us separated, I think,” Aziraphale replies, before humming. “It’s the hail and rain I’m most concerned about. It’s not an idle threat but suitably pointed at us. Do you think they’ve sorted out our subterfuge?”

Crowley ponders this. In the kitchen, there is the unmistakable sound of ice falling into glasses.

“I’ve only got Scotch. Anyone want water?” Anathema calls.

“Absolutely not, dear girl,” Aziraphale sniffs. “We both take it neat. Three fingers if you please.” He grabs Crowley about the waist and guides them toward their hostess and her kitchen. “What is it with Americans and ice?”

Crowley ignores this non sequitur and instead glances out the window as they pass. He notes that clouds are starting to roll in.

“Storm is impending,” he notes with a hiss. “Do we call their bluff?”

“Depends whether it’s a bluff or not. You know I’m terrible at poker,” Aziraphale is clearly refusing to look out the window. He focuses on Anathema instead.

As they enter the kitchen, she tosses back her drink and immediately pours another one. Aziraphale tips his glass against Crowley’s and sips. He offers no toast. Anathema holds her empty glass against her cheek thoughtfully.

“A.Z.,” she begins and Crowley grimaces. He hates that nickname, even if Aziraphale allows it. “What if we forget about the symbolism of my dreams and focus on ley lines instead?”

Crowley sips his Scotch, “what dreams, Book Girl?”

Aziraphale has clearly heard this during Crowley’s nap. He wanders back into the front room, his mind clearly already on some text or another.

Anathema frowns, “A mix of things. Sword fights, earthquakes, hailstones. I even went into labor at some point.”

Crowley looks alarmed and his fingers flex, as if he wants to reach for her. “Are you with child?”

There is an awkward moment then. The air in the room is heavy. Crowley leans forward and Anathema’s reflection glints on his sunglasses.

“I’m late,” she whispers. Tears swim in her eyes.

“So it’s possible?” he asks softly.

“I would be nearly three months along if it’s true,” she makes to reach for the bottle and glass again, but Crowley settles his hand over her glass and pulls it out of her reach.

“I guess we need to find a rabbit then,” he replies with a gentle smile. Anathema wraps her arms around herself and rubs her arms.

“I never wanted children,” she whispers.

Crowley’s sadness matches hers, “Funny. I’ve always wanted some.”

They hold each other’s gazes until Aziraphale’s shout of discovery from the other room startles them both.

“I believe I have found the stone circle from your dreams, Ms. Device! Rollright is the circle and two additional sites near it. Scholars consider it one single monument. It’s not too far from here,” he declares, holding an open book out before him.

Anathema blinks her eyes rapidly to dispel her tears before leaning over to see the image of Rollright.

“Yes!” she whispers in surprise. “This the location from two of my dream!”

Crowley grabs his mobile from his pocket and types the location into Google. Before he can study the results, he is distracted by Anathema’s question, "How did you find it?”

Aziraphale looks gleeful and he sets the book on the table before them, “The ley lines, just as you suggested. You mentioned that Adam’s powers had once forced all the ley lines of the island to spiral around Lower Tadfield.

“Before him, however, the lines followed other places of power. Pilgrims believed that cathedrals were on the ley lines, but these were usually built on pagan sites. Everyone always remembers Stonehenge, but it’s only famous because it's large and still intact.”

“Right,” Crowley agrees, nearly hissing, “of course. But the older ones they’re more powerful. Or how about the Anglo-Saxon mounds? Power changes. Did they return to their original lines?”

Before Aziraphale can answer, Anathema shakes her head, “No, ley lines can be mapped. They don’t move.”

“Sure they do,” Crowley grins, “you humans change your belief systems all the time. Those lines move every several generations or so. Adam just moved them faster.”

Aziraphale is studying the map of Oxfordshire and Warwickshire in his book. He uses his finger to trace around any potential place of power near Lower Tadfield. “The Almighty may be jealous, but she always respected the power that humans gave other gods.”

Crowley snorts at the word “jealous” and again at “respected”. Aziraphale ignores him.

“Then,” Anathema formulates slowly, “before Adam’s power changed them, they were tied to a mix of sacred sites—from different eras. And you think he put things back to where they were.”

Aziraphale looks at her like a teacher waiting for a student to make the last logical leap, “No. I think he reestablished them, but his understanding of power is different. He’s a child.”

Anathema’s eyes widen and she turns to wrench open the cabinet over the electric kettle. She pushes boxes this way and that. Suddenly, from the depths of a higher shelf, she yanks out a box of Wheetabix. She waves it at the other two.

“A child who puts importance on things in the world that make sense to them,” she exclaims. “Like a box of very British cereal that I would never eat. But his parents would. When he reset my home he stocked it with the cereal that he thinks all adults enjoy.”

Aziraphale's eyes gleam with pride. “The same would apply to anything really. Ley lines would be tied to what he deemed important or powerful.”

Crowley returns his attention to his mobile, as the angel muses, “For me, the real curiosity is why not give the local vicarage that sort of power? It’s from his childhood.”

“Oh, about that,” Crowley singsongs before turning his mobile’s screen toward the other two. There, on the English Heritage website’s article for Rollright Stone Circle is a photograph of the stone circle. Posed and grinning before one of the large stones is The Them on a school trip. Adam looks especially happy. “Rollright’s from his childhood too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical/Author Notes:
> 
> \- The comment about Tadfield having good burgers is from Pratchett/Gaiman. It's canon y'all!
> 
> \- Under Henry VII monasteries were "dissolved"--also ransacked. Monks or nuns reported all sorts of vandalism and abuse. This was after all the valuables were taken back to the king, of course. 
> 
> -Rollright Stone Circle is between Oxfordshire and Warwickshire. Lovely little walk. Local superstition holds that no one can count the number of stones correctly.
> 
> -It is important to note that Wheetabix is also found in any and all British BnBs I have ever visited. I don't like them, but I always eat them. Weird.


	10. EARTH, ROLLRIGHT STONES, CHIPPING NORTON (OXFORDSHIRE) - ANATHEMA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to post this so quickly. I have under two weeks before school stuff starts back up and lesson planning will always take priority.

Anathema is a little tipsy from the Scotch. Aziraphale is making comments about plans for dinner and she decides that food would soak up the alcohol well.

“If Heaven and Hell weren’t lying,” Crowley begins as he slides into the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, “then we have about an hour and a half before the weather kills us all. Dinner is going to have to wait.”

Then he makes a noise of delight. There, hanging in the ignition is a car key.

“Oh you saucy minx,” he growls seductively. “You’ve changed allegiances, then?”

He points at the key and it turns obediently. The car roars to life. Anathema does not understand any of this conversation, but she does understand Aziraphale’s eye roll. She slots it into “Crowley being Crowley” and looks out the window as they zip down the road.

She does not want to stop at the chemist, but Crowley does anyway. She is fairly sure that he jumps out before the car is completely stopped.

“Two ticks,” he promises and runs in.

He returns with an armload of water bottles, crisps, Hobnobs, pregnancy tests, and a Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar. He dumps his bounty into Aziraphale’s lap and starts the engine.

“Cheese and onion?” Aziraphale turns up his nose. “I shan't kiss you and you know it.”

Crowley sticks out his tongue and then grabs the bag of crisps. Aziraphale distributes the goodies. Everyone is immediately given water and a sharp look. He gives a clear order to open it and drink. Anathema can’t find it in herself to argue with an angel and she drinks. The Hobnobs Aziraphale himself keeps, but he hands the chocolate back to Anathema. He does not comment on the pregnancy test box. He sets it gently on the armrest between the two front seats. As if by a miracle, it slides backward with the acceleration of the car. It falls right into her purse. Anathema looks up to catch Crowley’s eye in the mirror.

He smiles reassuringly.

She might feel better if there was not the looming threat of giant creatures in major cities around the world and holy water and Hellfire falling from the sky. She slowly unwraps her chocolate and breaks off a square. It’s sweet and smooth in a way that American chocolate isn’t. She cannot exactly say why.

They’re on the road again quickly. The countryside blurs by her window and she notes the beginnings of dusk. Absently, she wonders what Newt is doing. She could text him, but knowing his strange relationship with technology, he might not even have a functioning mobile. She lets her thoughts drift instead.

Rollright Stones are much like any other stone circle. It has a dusty lane to park on, a stile to climb over, and a field to hike through. The sun has begun to turn the sky into a watercolor painting. The towering thunderclouds that threaten Hellfire and holy water lean over the oaks and pines. The sun colors these with edges of orange and pink. The sky is settling into a dusty lavender and grey-blue hue.

Crowley vaults the stile and waits with his hand up to guide them down from the other side. She gathers her skirts and steps up. He balances her like a Regency gentleman as she grabs his hand for the descent into the field. Aziraphale takes his hand as well for the two awkward downward steps but does not seem inclined to let go once he is on the ground again.

“Your breath is foul,” he complains as they walk. “Cheese and onion, honestly. Some would think you were born in a barn, as it were. A cave, maybe. _The United States_.”

Crowley grins and tugs him along toward their destination. Anathema smiles at their banter but eventually tunes them out. They first encounter a collection of stones ringed in a steel fence. Anathema pauses to regard the so-called Whispering Knights. These are the eldest stones, the plaque reads, from Neolithic Britain. These are not part of any rite, but she knows they’re nearing the circle and its power.

“We are going to enter a holy site,” she clarifies in faint alarm. She nervously addresses Crowley, “Can you visit it?”

He contemplates this. “It’s not near either Solstice. I should be all right.”

“You attended plenty of harvest rites at circles before,” Aziraphale observes. “One assumes that such rites would burn being so centered on fire. Or perhaps the opposite, now that I think about it.”

“I was more fond of Hanami, personally. What was that? 900? I still remember the sake,” Crowley adds dreamily.

“Those blossoms were beautiful,” Aziraphale agrees. “Sakura flowers are not really the same sort of consecrated ground though, my dear. Tree spirits are not the same level of the divine.”

Crowley waves this off. “We are not going to rehash the ‘Right and Wrong’ argument again. The point is,” he grins and points at the stones they were just standing near, “that is a tomb. Book Girl’s dream was in a stone circle.”

It’s not much further to the King’s Men, the official name of the stone circle. Once they near it, Anathema digs into her bag for her dowsing rods. Her mother always swore by the traditional hazel stick in the shape of a Y. Anathema leans more on the modern L-Rods herself. She takes one in each hand and begins her search.

She is so focused that she misses how Crowley gets between her and the figure in the center of the circle.

“Book Girl,” he warns, then with a bit more emphasis, “Anathema.”

She looks up. Aziraphale is approaching a tall, cloaked figure. He is familiar, but she cannot focus on him. His face seems to jump about—warping each time she tries to look at his face. She wants to look away. Crowley is dancing in front of her to block her vision.

Then she knows why.

The tall dark figure speaks and her ears ring like sonic booms. She clasps her hands over her ears only to find Crowley’s hands already there, protecting her. The noise paused but then continues and she screams in pain. Her knees give out.

Distantly, through the waves of pain, she’s aware of shiny, dark feathers surrounding her like a hug. Somewhere, Crowley is commanding her to open her eyes and look at him. He calls her child. She can’t stop screaming, but then he is forcing her eyes open. She’s seen him without sunglasses, she knows. But in that exact moment, there is something captivating about his eyes, hypnotic even. She stares, unblinkingly at his irises, which are yellow and gold, nearly swirling like a supernova. He speaks to her about calm and she stops screaming. She breathes with the pattern he sets for her. She feels her eyes grow heavy at his suggestion and she sleeps.


	11. EARTH, ROLLRIGHT STONES, CHIPPING NORTON (OXFORDSHIRE) - AZIRAPHALE

Azrael, the Angel of Death, is waiting for them in the center of Rollright stone circle. Crowley is helping Anathema struggle with an actual view of Death, so Aziraphale marches forward.

“Hello, Azrael,” he greets and Death gives a little wave.

I DID NOT EXPECT A HUMAN. SORRY ABOUT THAT; I WOULD HAVE TONED IT DOWN OTHERWISE.

Aziraphale follows Azrael’s gaze back behind him. Crowley has wrapped his wings around Anathema and is humming a lullaby to her.

“I think she’s all right, considering. Poor thing. She’s been more receptive than many humans I’ve met,” he notes.

I ALWAYS THINK SO TOO. THEN LATER I FIND OUT THAT THEY SPENT TWO HOURS CURLED IN A BALL CRYING TO THEIR MOTHERS.

Azrael shrugs. Aziraphale shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“We came because the human has been having visions and dreams about this space,” he begins, but Death cuts him off.

I KNOW. JEREMIEL AND I HAD TEA.

This gives Aziraphale pause. “They sent Anathema these visions?”

THEY SAID THAT SHE WAS OPEN.

Aziraphale nods, slowly. “She comes from a family with the Sight.”

YES, AGNES AND JEREMIEL ARE WELL ACQUAINTED.

Death leans on his scythe before he continues.

WE SET YOU UP, ACTUALLY. I NEED SOME ADVICE.

He’s ready to grab the other two and flee when he hears Death admit to having set them up. The second part, in need of advice, keeps his feet planted. From inside his cloak, Azrael pulls forth a scroll. It’s emitting an ethereal glow thatwhispers to the holy light inside Aziraphale. He wants to weep.

THIS IS THE SECOND WOE; IT IS A LIST OF ALL THOSE LIVING WHO I AM TO COLLECT.

“How can you know?” Aziraphale snaps, confused. “You’ve _opened_ it?”

NOT QUITE.

Azrael turns the scroll so that it unrolls. Pulsing at the bottom of the scroll is a line of signatures. The holy power of all seven archangels tingles. Beside these are the damned sigils of all four Princes of Hell.

Aziraphale gapes, “ _She_ didn’t open this?” His thoughts are spinning. Death seems to know this and pushes on.

THE ALMIGHTY IS NOT IN HEAVEN. THE KING OF HELL WANTS A WAR AND WILL PURSUE IT.

The news staggers him. Aziraphale reaches out to brace himself on one of the stones. Of course, Crowley had suspicions, but secretly, even now, Aziraphale still thought Crowley was holding a grudge. There is a moment of grief for his doubt in his friend, but Azrael is speaking.

WITHOUT HER POWER TO OPEN THE SCROLL, ONE-THIRD OF THE WORLD: FLORA AND FAUNA MUST DIE, BUT BY A MIRACLE.

Aziraphale’s heart stutters, “Are you asking me to—“

NO, HELL AND HEAVEN ARE ASKING ME TO.

Now the discomfort that has surrounded Azrael makes sense.

IT IS NOT IN MY DESIGN OUTSIDE OF THE END TIMES.

“And this is not officially Armageddon.”

THERE IS NO ANTI-CHRIST.

And there was the crux of it. Adam had given away his power, but neither Aziraphale and Crowley had known to what extent. If Heaven and Hell collectively believe there was no Anti-Christ, then Adam’s powers are negligible. Combined with the news that She was not residing on Her throne, Aziraphale feels at sea. Azrael waves the scroll.

WHAT SHOULD I DO?

Aziraphale leans on the ancient stone and looks back to Crowley.

“Save the world,” he begs in a whisper. “You are a neutral force, Azrael. Do not question your basic nature. Death cannot be used as a weapon—only humans do that.”

IN THE CASES OF HIGHER MORAL GROUND—

“That is absurd gibberish that humans and Heaven have long used to simply do as they please. If Upstairs and Downstairs are going to force this war then you must avoid morals completely. You must remain neutral,” Aziraphale states. He wishes it did not sound like a plea.

Crowley is peering at him from above his wings. His brow is knit in concern as he reads Aziraphale’s body language. Then, he raises his arms above his feathers and taps his wrist. Time to go.

Azrael studies the scroll before him, letting his long, skeletal finger draw across the near-infinite list of names.

“You need to know,” Aziraphale says, “that they are about to start holy water rain and Hellfire as hail.”

Azrael seems confused.

THAT IS ALSO A SEAL.

“And a trumpet, according to John,” Aziraphale notes. He can feel the moments ticking away.

THAT IS OUT OF ORDER. THEY ARE NOT GOING ACCORDING TO THE PLAN.

“Neither side is on any plan. They just want a war.”

I WILL SPEAK TO WAR. WE WILL DISCUSS THIS.

“Then they haven’t summoned her?” This gives Aziraphale a moment of joy. They may still have hope.

WE ARE NEUTRAL POWERS, AS YOU HAVE SAID. I CANNOT FEEL HER OR THE OTHERS AS I CAN THE HEAVENLY HOST AND THE DAMNED.

“Good luck.”

I WILL CHECK IN SOON.

And he is gone. Aziraphale turns and hurries back toward Crowley. Anathema is asleep in his arms, her hands still clutched to her ears.

“Angel,” Crowley lifts the witch into his arms, “we are cutting it really close. We gotta go.”

They hurry to the Aston Martin. Crowley lays Anathema in the backseat then jumps behind the steering wheel. The clouds loom over them menacingly. Thunder rumbles as they pull back onto the road.

“My darling, we are going to need to get a wiggle on,” and Aziraphale makes a gesture that shows he will miracle them somehow.

“By all means, old chap,” Crowley replies poshly, pressing the accelerator to the floor. The Aston Martin squats down and its engine revs.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale focuses. His snap bends physical space. The British Isles have long been his land of residence. He has put down roots here. This should not give him more power, but there is something to be said for ownership. The space between their current location and Jasmine Cottage bends to its principality’s need. The Aston Martin squeals into park, leaving burn skids across Anathema’s front garden.

There is an outbuilding next to the cottage. Aziraphale expects that it will become a proper garage with a nice covered walkway to the proper cottage. Crowley smiles, appreciatively. They park inside as another clap of thunder rolls from the clouds.

Neither of them moves to exit the car. Anathema snores softly behind them.

“Azrael set that up?” Crowley asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“He and Jeremiel. They know there’s something wrong.” Aziraphale takes the moment to fill Crowley in on the conversation. Crowley squeezes the steering wheel for want of doing something with his hands.

Outside, something hits the road. Then the fence. Then the clouds open up and rain and hailstones crash down. A tree ignites and then is completely quenched. Aziraphale and Crowley look to each other. They both grin. The moment fades for Aziraphale quickly.

“This is poppycock,” he snaps.

“Poppycock, angel?” Crowley asks, sardonically. He turns in his seat to look out the rearview windscreen in delight as the Hellfire and holy water cancel each other out. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the hail.

“Balderdash! Claptrap! Crowley, my dear, they have spit in our faces and called us horses!” He is wiggling with anger.

Crowley locks in on the angel’s face at the Shakespearean allusion. When he catches up, he blesses. “They wanted us to stay where we were. They knew I wouldn’t go to London.”

“And, with this,” Aziraphale continues, with a wave toward the outside, “they’ve tested us. They’re onto our ruse.”

“Damn, bless, oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_ ,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale opens his door and exits the car. He stands at the boot of the Aston Martin and watches the mix of holy water and Hellfire.

“Buggerall,” Aziraphale sighs. He turns around to see Crowley waking Anathema and helping her out of the car. “My dear girl?”

“Had to hypnotize her. She’ll be a little out of it for a while,” Crowley apologizes. He pulls her arm around his neck and lets her stagger toward the cottage.

“Angel,” Crowley stops and Anathema lurches against him, “what’s going on in London that they wanted to keep us away from?”


	12. HEAVEN, THE DEPARTMENT OF THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS, SOCIAL MEDIA OPERATIONS

The angel Tien, the Assistant Team Leader of the Department of Thoughts and Prayers, Social Media Operations under the direction of the archangel Sandalphon, is perplexed. Her inbox is filled with real-time prayer requests for catastrophic events. Monsters. Hail of fire. Earthquakes. She glances over at the nature scene calendar hanging on her side of the cubical. There is nothing noted there. She does a quick search of her inbox for related memos. Nada. She taps her fingernail on her lip. She is not incompetent, nor is she stupid. After all, her promotion to Assistant Team Leader has to lead to dramatic changes. For one, she helped craft the five categories of Social Media Thoughts and Prayers.

  1. _Personal thoughts and prayers, or social media posts calling attention to a specific issue (e.g. “my cat isn’t eating, pray for Mister Mittens!”)_
  2. _(There is a dispute about this being a separate category, which is why Tien is in charge of this and not Sandalphon) Personal thoughts and prayers with an attached request for money (e.g. “my brother was in a terrible traffic accident and we’ve started a GoFundMe for his new car!”)_
  3. _General comment of “thoughts and prayers” following a major crisis (e.g. natural disaster or mass shooting)_
  4. _General replies of “thoughts and prayers” to someone’s social media post about a specific concern in their life (e.g. “my mother’s lab results have come back and she’s got cancer” receives the reply “thoughts and prayers!”)_
  5. _Re-shared, viral images calling for prayer for specific topics (e.g. “Pray for our veterans!”)_



It helps her people sort out where to direct these posts. Sandalphon claims that the viral images equate the same as a general prayer request, but Tien privately disagrees (and makes her people sort into five categories). Unlike the archangel, she has worked in this department. She knows how it goes.

Of course, nothing has been the same since the war was canceled. First, their offices and departments were disbanded. They were issued uniforms and weapons and then… nothing.

There wasn’t even time to recreate their offices. So, for her sins, as it were, Information Technologies (IT) is sharing cubicles with Thoughts and Prayers. Then has to give up half her space for Engel, IT’s team leader. There is so little space in their little gray cubical. They constantly bump into one another. Then again, that’s not too bad. Engel is downright bloody gorgeous. Dark curls. Dimples. Striking brown eyes. Big laugh. Yeah, she’s a goner.

Plus, he’s kind. He brings her gifts—like her printing from the copier or a pretty stone he found—just to make her smile. She’s no better. She’ll see him out of the corner of her eye and just watch him until he notices her. Then they’ll share a smile and get back to work. It’s romance, obviously—but also completely not allowed. Even still, it lingers on the edge of their interactions.

Now, she scans the list of incoming thoughts and prayers again. She hums in concern.

“Tien?” he interrupts. She looks over at him. He has two separate laptops open in front of him, but he’s watching her with concern.

“Something’s going on down on Earth. It’s blindsided us,” she swings in her chair so he can see the growing list of worries that people are posting on Facebook.

“That’s a big list,” he notes in concern.

“It goes like this sometimes,” she replies, hoping to comfort him. Other angels sneer at their department, but Thoughts and Prayers can be a very traumatic place to work. Her team is the best. She honestly believes that.

Engel nods, sadly. He turns back to his work when something on her screen catches his eye. He freezes and then leans closer to her to read one of the prayer requests.

“Tien,” he points to the subject of that Thought and Prayer, “you need to open that.”

She follows his finger and is slightly amused. “What? The random Instagram post about seeing the angel of death in a stone circle? We get crazy stuff all the time—“

“—that really happened,” he interrupts and angles one of the laptops toward them.

As he runs his finger across the trackpad, the screen blinks to life. Tien can see that the wallpaper is the archangel Gabriel posed with his spear. She scans the folders on the desktop.

“Why do you have his laptop?” she asks slowly.

Engel grimaces. “You know that stupid chain email that keeps going through the office servers?”

Tien rolls her eyes, “The Nigerian prince that needs us to hold his money?”

Engel nods. “Every single time it comes through, Gabriel either believes that he is thwarting a demon or that he can use the money toward Her Plan. He downloads a ton of viruses every week.”

Tien can’t help herself. She covers her mouth with her hand—part amusement and part disbelief. Engel shakes his head and smiles at the floor. When he looks back at her, his eyes twinkle. “I got tired of dealing with him coming to me with his entire system locked up every quarter, so I take his computer once a month and deal with it. Prevention, sort of.”

“That’s clever, but has nothing to do with Death and this post,” she comments, waving at her inbox. He grimaces, nods, and leans toward the laptop to work.

This time, Engel looks at her seriously and clicks on a minimized screen. It’s one of many across the open program tab. It pops up a PDF of a report written by a demon.

“Why does Gabriel have a report from hell?” she asks. Engel shrugs, but scrolls down in the document. There, in the middle of the text, is an image of Azreal in the center of a stone circle. He’s speaking to the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

“That’s Aziraphale!” Tien squeaks. “I was told he was killed in the preparations of the war!”

Tears pool in her eyes. Relief and grief fight for dominance. Engel reaches over and touches her shoulder.

“How do you know him?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

“He ran some trainings for us. He knows the most about Earth. Sometimes we needed context and no one else was better suited. He’s alive!”

Engel is hesitant, but he clicks open another file that was minimized.

**PROFESSIONAL WARNING: CONDUCT UNBECOMING A PRINCIPALITY**

**Outcome Report for Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Permanently Stationed on Earth (London)**

Engel scrolls down to the portion that he seems to find the most important. As Tien reads, she begins to tremble. Aziraphale colluded with a demon to stop Armageddon. The archangels asked demons to break Hellfire to Heaven for the stated purpose of killing an angel. She looks at Engel in alarm. He searches her face.

“There’s more,” he whispers.

Engel clicks the window for CelestialLook. There is a draft of an email open.

To: uriel@heaven.org

From: gabriel@heaven.org

Subject: Re: The Scroll

right so i delivered the scroll like we talked about but it did not go well azreal has many questions i’m just the messenger i told him you might have to check in on him in like 3 days

-g

> To: [gabriel@heaven.org](mailto:gabriel@heaven.org)

> From: [uriel@heaven.org](mailto:uriel@heaven.org)

> Subject: The Scroll

>

> Gabriel,

> I hope this finds you well. The Scroll has been signed by all interested parties. I > left it for you in your inbox on your desk. Could you see

>that it gets to Azreal? I

> know we’re all counting on this plan to go well.

> Blessings,

> Your sister, Uriel

Tien looks back to her own screen where thousands of generic prayer requests roll in.

“You don’t think they mean the Armageddon Scroll, do they?” she asks in disbelief.

His eyes are frightened. “I was asked to visit the Pantheon realm for a WIFI issue,” he whispers. “I overheard Apo Anno and Ogun. They were arguing about the limits of power.”

She nods. Power would probably be important to the demi-gods. There was no question that their Holy Mother had been jealous of the many deities that humans worshiped. In the beginning, She had punished humanity with floods and wrath. Over time, however, She realized that humans’ creativity was giving these deities power. Everyone knew that the Pantheon realm only existed because humans believed that it did. She never gave them abilities, yet they had them. Their arrival had sent Heaven into a tailspin for months.

“They were saying that maybe they should step in on behalf of humanity,” Engel continues. “Apo Anno kept repeating that his family had suffered enough and that taking the power from his mummy could hurt them. Ogun just kept saying that if the angels wanted a war, then they should remember that he was a warrior.”

“And you’re sure they weren’t talking about the Great War?” she asks.

Engel hesitantly reaches for her hand. She grabs him when it’s close. He flushes and she nearly smiles. If this were any other day, this would be a dream come true. Right now though, her stomach is rolling.

“This was after Armageddon was stopped. I heard them talking about the angels murdering one of their own—I think that was your friend.”

Using their joined hands, Tien points to Gabriel’s laptop, “But he didn’t die. How is that possible? And they said murder?”

Engel nods. “Ogun said that even Eshu would not play these games of chance with others—he believes that whatever happened was worse than what demons would do, Tien.”

She bites her thumbnail in frustration. “We have to do something."

“What?” he asks. “I’ve been sitting on these files for a day and a half. Gabriel will come to get his machine soon.”

“I think we go tell someone.”

“Who? A Throne? A Power? They all might punish us.”

“Then we go see Her,” Tien says and stands up. She grabs Gabriel’s laptop and charges for the Throne Room. Engel chases her. Vaguely she’s aware that he’s whispering about getting caught up in something they shouldn’t be and so forth. It’s too late though. Tien has always been stubborn. Three floors up and they arrive at the doors to the Throne Room.

She knocks.

There is no answer, but when she tries the handle, it turns. The door opens. Engel is behind her and she can hear his terrified breathing. She clutches the laptop to her chest and enters the Throne Room with her head bowed and her eyes locked on the floor.

It smells of incense and rain.

“Mother, we come because we need your advice,” she begins, bowing at her middle.

Someone clears their throat before she and Tien chance a glance. Sitting on a step to the dais is Vishnu. To his side on the floor, the Christ Child and Brigid are shooting craps.

“Where is our Mother?” Engel whispers, distraught. Tien stares at the empty throne uncomprehendingly. Brigid drops her dice and stands to take their hands. Her feet are bare and they make little noise on the mother-of-pearl floor. The other two have also stood.

“It’s all right, little angels,” she begins comfortingly, but Tien talks over her. Her voice raises in alarm.

“We need our Mother! The archangels are working with Hell to start the end of the world. They tried to kill my friend, an angel!” She shoves the laptop at Yeshua.

“That’s,” Vishnu begins, “a lot to take in.” He stands at Yeshua’s shoulder and they scroll through the many screens. Vishnu nods at Brigid to join them. The three murmur in alarm as they read.

“We will take care of this,” Yeshua begins, but he’s interrupted as the double doors to the Throne Room are thrown open. These impact the wall and wobble back in the direction they came.

There, in Holy Wrath, is Gabriel.

“There is nothing to take care of,” he snarls.

Vishnu looks ready to fight and he steps between the angels, pushing Tien and Engel toward Her throne.

“What are you doing, archangel?” he barks. “This is not to the Plan!”

“There is no Plan,” Gabriel retorts, and Tien gasps. “The Lord has abandoned us, so we have to figure out what Her will would have been. We’re sticking to the general guidelines She left.”

“We told you what She wanted. Every religion on Earth talked about caring for others—the ethic of reciprocity. Do I need to get Muhammad in here? Or Baháʼu’lláh? Literally, we spent thousands of years saying what the plan was,” Yeshua lectures with gentle sarcasm.

“No,” Gabriel snaps, with the polish of a politician, “we are talking about the Great War. You knew all about that too, _Lamb_. That Plan is what She told us eons ago. We don’t have Her to make sure we go step-by-step, but we’ll have Good triumph Evil! Now, it’s happening. It’s exciting. We’re gonna win! So, stop this whining and get on board.” He gives a dramatic smile that does not reach his eyes. Somewhere in his speech, Tien takes Engel’s hand.

“Where is our Mother?” Tien whispers, tears dripping off her chin.

Gabriel frowns, but a small crack of empathy bleeds through. “She’s been gone a long time. She trusts us to do what we know is right.” Engel tightens his grip on Tien’s hand.

“That’s not the way this goes, archangel,” Brigid replies. Her face is wrinkled in concern. “War is only destruction. Ours is the way of balance—“

“Listen, witch-goddess-lady,” Gabriel interrupts, empathy forgotten, “balance went out when a Principality started boinking a demon, and then they convinced the Anti-Christ to stop the War. Chaos is running things right now. We have to go to war; we need Good restored. Now, I don’t have enough time to deal with all of you,” Gabriel smiles again. It’s not a nice smile. “I have to go announce the arrival of the new Christ!”

Yeshua looks very confused. “I’m right here.”

“Maybe you’re getting a new body,” Vishnu suggests, aiming for helpful, but ending up more wrathful.

“Maybe you’re growing a new buddy in your navel,” Yeshua snaps, before stalking toward Gabriel. Gabriel flashes with holy light and his wings snap into existence. Yeshua stalls and stops.

“You had your turn,” Gabriel singsongs. “Now, we need a different kid to keep the story going.”

“Another sacrifice?” Brigid cries angrily, “That is not balanced!”

“Tell it to the Mesoamericans,” Gabriel offers as a parting shot as backs out of the Throne Room and the doors slam and lock behind him.

Brigid pulls on the door handles. Clearly, they’re locked in.

“Well,” she announces, “this is all going to shit.”

Engel wraps Tien in a hug. She tucks her face into his chest and returns his tight embrace. Her tears soak into his shirt.

“Our teams will wonder where we are,” she mummers into the fabric of his suit coat. “Maybe they’ll claim we ran off and eloped.”

“I’d hoped to take you out for a date at least once, first,” he jokes, his hand rubbing her back. He’s sadly gazing at the empty throne.

“I’d have liked that,” she whispers.

Behind them, Brigid sinks to the floor. Vishnu settles on the step of the dais again and leans back so his hair brushes the floor near the foot of Her throne. Yeshua reopens the laptop and stares at its screen.

“Think we could send Her a text and get her back here to sort this out?” he wonders aloud.

Brigid absently turns a die in her hand and Yeshua picks non-existent crumbs from his beard as he reads.

“She won’t answer,” Brigid replies.

“So, the humans are going to be exterminated in a war,” Vishnu comments, “and there’s nothing we can do about it?”

“There is an angel on Earth,” Engel reminds them, “and he’s working with Azreal.”

“And Azreal isn’t completely on board with this, it seems,” Tien encourages. “But couldn’t we just call our Mother home? She could set this right.”

The three who met them in the Throne Room seem completely unwilling to make eye contact.

Finally, Brigid speaks when the other two refuse, “She made the world, but She’s gone, little angel. She’s not coming back. We’ve called Her before. She did not come. She did not answer.”

And there, in the Throne Room of Herself, two angels came to terms with what it means to serve a non-existent deity.


	13. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, JASMINE COTTAGE - CROWLEY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a panic attack. The Boys have sex. Skip this chapter if that's not your thing.

Crowley helps Anathema onto her sofa. She has the coordination of a drunk, thanks to his bit of hypnosis. He tosses his sunglasses onto the coffee table next to her.

“It’ll wear off soon,” he apologizes, “just didn’t want you to go mad because you saw Death.”

Her head drops off the pillow like a doll’s. She blinks at him slowly. “…didn’t wannagomad…” she slurs.

“Yeah, well. Sleep, it helps.” He pulls off her glasses and set them next to his sunglasses. He pulls a soft blanket from the armchair Aziraphale claimed and throws it over her. Her eyes are already closed and her breathing slows.

Aziraphale is at the kitchen window on sentry duty. He is standing at attention, hands loosely clasped behind his back. He does not move, but he sees everything. His eyes seem locked on the falling holy rain and hellish hail. Crowley tastes the air with a forked tongue. There are the scent and tingle of the Divine—Aziraphale is looking past the physical realm. Other eyes are open and guarding. He was created for this task. Crowley cannot help much in this.

He feels lost. One reason being Nanny to little Warlock had suited him so well was the constant stream of things to do. Caring for children was completely reactionary. Right now, no one needs a reaction. Crowley could hang over Anathema, but sleep is really all she needs.She wouldn’t appreciate being coddled anyway. Aziraphale only ever needed him when he was bound by Heaven’s rules—something unnecessary on their own side. At the moment, he’s doing what She designed him for. Which leaves Crowley at loose ends, unable to even go outside into the deadly weather.

A fiery hailstone strikes the glass by Aziraphale, but it is Crowley who jumps. The ultimate “gotcha!” from Up and Downstairs, and they played into the trap like fools.

Whatever is happening in London was likely within their ability to stop, Crowley thinks. So much for choosing the side of humanity and Earth, he internally snarls, we just left them to die.

His hands need motion and purpose. If Warlock were this anxious, Nanny would have made him Cambric. The routine of it gives Crowley an objective and he stalks into the kitchen to finds the kettle. It’s some fancy electric thing with too many buttons. Seep. Temperature. Plus and minus symbols. A timer. A different timer.

“I just want bloody tea,” he snarls at it as he scans the buttons. “Where do I turn it on?”

Aziraphale’s hand clasps over his on the handle of the kettle. He is firm and steady. Crowley finds that he is suddenly trembling. Aziraphale guides the kettle to the counter and both of them let go. Without a breath, Crowley spins and grabs Aziraphale’s coat lapels. He rests his forehead on the angel’s shoulder. He thinks he might be sick. His hands and arms shake. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. Aziraphale palms Crowley’s biceps, rubbing up and down soothingly.

“They tricked us,” he pants. “They trapped us.”

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s arms before resuming his caress.

“We are not trapped,” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley charges on, his voice comes in gulps of air.

“Why did they want us to stay here? Is London where we need to be? What if they win—“

“Enough, my heart’s darling, enough,” Aziraphale orders. His voice is stern and will accept no opposition. Crowley presses his forehead harder into the angel’s shoulder. Tears prickle in his eyes.

This time, when he speaks, his voice is stilted and quiet, “What if the ground is consecrated in spots? What if you step on a damned piece of soil? I can’t heal you.”

Aziraphale’s arms encircle him now and hold him tight. He does not answer. Crowley’s breath catches again, only now it’s a sob. He tightens his fingers into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat.

“We’ll think of something,” Aziraphale finally says, gently.

With another sob, Crowley jokes, “Or you’ll never speak to me again?”

He raises his head, his eyes shining with tears, and meets Aziraphale’s gaze. He expects to meet humor there, but instead, he only sees Aziraphale’s guilt and sorrow. It pushes the panic away, leaving only sadness and love in its wake.

“I said terrible things, my dear boy,” he confirms, his voice trembling. “Please forgive me.”

Crowley hides in Aziraphale’s shoulder again, his hands shaking and his tears flowing.

“Course,” he croaks between sobs.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s ear and tucks his nose into the demon’s hair.

“I panicked at the airfield,” he continues. He is so close to Crowley’s ear that his whisper could be speaking volume. “You got us out without bloodshed.” He chuckles, depreciatingly, “Imagine, a warrior who hates to fight.”

Crowley slips one arm under Aziraphale’s coat and rests his palm between the angel’s shoulder blades. “A good angel then. Loves more than he hates.” His voice is breathy with tears.

Aziraphale turns his head slowly and rubs his nose along the shell of Crowley’s ear. He mouths a kiss there and Crowley sighs. “I do love you, so very much, my dear.”

At this, Crowley raises his head and demands a kiss.

Aziraphale speaks, barely a hair away from another kiss, “I’m not ready for us to say goodbye. I wasn’t in the airfield, nor in the bookshop.”

Crowley feels a tear run down his cheek and he smiles, “We best come up with a plan then.” He releases Aziraphale’s other lapel and rests his hand on the angel’s hip. Aziraphale, in turn, leans into Crowley’s embrace and rests their heads together, temple-to-temple. Crowley works his fingers under the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt and rubs his finger across the skin he finds there. The angel sighs and turns. He ghosts a series of kisses across Crowley’s cheek and jaw.

“We should go upstairs,” Crowley tempts his voice still hitching. He untucks more of Aziraphale’s shirt. He slides his hand across soft skin and lets his thumb trace the ridges of the angel’s love handles. “They won’t come when the weather could kill them.”

Aziraphale nudges Crowley’s shirt away from his throat with his nose and continues his languid catalog of the demon’s skin. He speaks between kisses and nips. “They could send someone else. We should stand watch.”

Crowley’s hand strokes around Aziraphale’s side to the small of his back. His fingers trace circles there. His touch is light. “We will scare Anathema if she finds us on her table,” he teases. His voice is rough from tears and panic.

Aziraphale’s eyes gleam with mischief, “Perhaps her countertops then?”

Crowley blinks, slowly. A haze of lust settles on him. Before he can argue, Aziraphale’s hands are under his arms and lifting him to sit on the counter. The kettle is pushed aside.

“She’ll sleep,” Aziraphale comments, using Crowley’s thin scarf to pull him down into a kiss. His tongue dances across Crowley’s lip and into his mouth. It startles a lewd groan from the demon. Aziraphale breaks the kiss to continue, “No one will bother us.”

The weight of his expectation settles on the house like a miracle. Now, Crowley is panting for a different reason. Aziraphale flicks the button on Crowley’s jeans open with one thumb as he slides his arms from his own coat. Crowley is startled to see the golden bloodstain on Aziraphale’s side. He leans forward with his fingers outstretched. His panic builds again, but Aziraphale stops his hand.

“No, my darling,” he commands, softly, before proceeding to unzip Crowley’s jeans. “We’ll deal with it soon. Focus on this. Focus on me.”

He grabs Crowley’s jeans by two belt loops and slides them down the demon’s hips. Aziraphale never looks away. Instead, he holds Crowley’s gaze. His eyes are filled with hot desire and pure love; it keeps them grounded at the moment. Crowley shivers and leans forward for another kiss.

The trousers stop at Crowley’s shins, making a tight constraint that keeps his legs from a full range of movement. Aziraphale doesn’t seem concerned, instead, he leans down and steps into the ring of Crowley’s legs. The jeans force Crowley’s legs to rest on Aziraphale’s hips, so he digs his heels into the angel’s back and pulls him closer. He comes with a smile. This time, he does comment on the demon’s underwear.

“Lace in a time of war, my darling?” he teases.

Crowley grins, impishly, “It’s fetching.”

Aziraphale rucks up Crowley’s henley with one hand and traces a path through the trail of auburn hair on his abdomen. The other hand traces an outline around Crowley’s erection through the fabric. He moans in surprise, but this only elicits another smile from the angel. He palms Crowley through his lace shorts and seems mesmerized by the little puffs of air this drags from his partner.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, reverently. He rubs his thumb across the lace that covers the head of Crowley’s cock. He licks his lips as he watches the fabric pull up across the tops of Crowley’s thighs. With his other hand, he undoes his trousers. He pulls himself free of trousers and pants. He’s flushed and eager, his cock head already beading. And the moment changes. This is no longer romantic lovemaking, this is the desperate sex that follows near death.

With a groan of anticipation, Crowley drops his head back against the cabinet. He watches Aziraphale through his eyelashes. Aziraphale gives a hungry smile before he grasps Crowley under the knees and pulls him forward on the countertop. Crowley leans back to compensate for the angle. Aziraphale strokes his hands up and over Crowley’s legs before he pulls the lace shorts down at the back. The countertop is cold on Crowley’s ass, but his front is still covered in lace. Aziraphale grins and steps in tighter to his demon.

He expects that Crowley will be prepared and ready, so he is. He pushes in slowly, which makes Crowley’s back arch. With his legs and feet trapped in his jeans, he doesn’t have much leverage. All the same, he crosses his ankles and tries to pull Aziraphale further forward.

Aziraphale refuses to move at the pace. He holds Crowley’s hips in each hand and pulls him onto his cock, inch by inch, achingly slow. No matter how many times they do this, Crowley’s body puts up resistance. It’s an exquisite tightness. He can feel every twitch of his anus and the stretch of his muscles as Aziraphale pushes in. He scoots forward again on the counter and rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s eyes are closes, but his mouth is open. He huffs shallow breaths with each millimeter he slides forward. Crowley hums at the tight burn of being entered. He leans forward and licks a path of Aziraphale’s ear before letting his weight drop forward off the counter. Aziraphale gives a dramatic gasp of being fully sheathed and Crowley feels him throb inside him, nearly coming. He drops his head to Crowley’s sternum and struggles to get himself under control.

Crowley’s arms are braced on the countertop and his legs around Aziraphale, but the angel adjusts his stance and this changes. There is no need for a miracle; Aziraphale is a warrior. Angelic strength is already written into his muscles. His hands grip Crowley’s hips tighter and he lifts him to shift the angle. Crowley writhes, leaning back into this new position. His shoulder blades nearly brush the counter. Aziraphale is done waiting, apparently. The anxiety of the last two days spurn him on and he fucks Crowley in short, fast strokes.

The lace of his shorts rubs Crowley’s cock and Aziraphale aims right for his prostate. He lets his words warble into a long, guttural groan. With each thrust, Crowley’s voice shifts. It’s delicious. Then Aziraphale pushes him back into the counter; the edge cuts into the small of his back. Aziraphale kisses his, open-mouthed and messy.

“Angel,” Crowley moans, in between kisses. He bites Aziraphale’s lower lip and the angel snaps his hips forward hard and Crowley feels him pulsing. Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley’s hips and around into the cheeks of his ass, as he lets out a low, lusty groan. His eyes flutter shut.

Crowley reaches up behind him and grabs the underside of the cupboards. He pulls himself up and Aziraphale slides free. His ass scrapes the edge of the countertop. Before he’s ready, Aziraphale descends.

  
He licks stripes across the fabric, running his tongue up and down Crowley’s length. He hums and sucks Crowley’s shaft through the lace. Crowley bucks and cries out. He’s close, but this isn’t enough. Aziraphale grabs Crowley under the knees once more and arranges him on the counter as he wants. One hand travels up Crowley’s leg and beyond the pulled down knickers. He immediately pushes two fingers into Crowley’s opening. His own release slides down his fingers. Aziraphale groans in appreciation and he fucks Crowley at a slow pace. Then, he returns to licking Crowley through his underwear. The other hand steals under the lace to roll Crowley’s testicles in his hand.

“Angel,” Crowley moans again as he pushes back onto Aziraphale’s fingers. Without warning, the lace is pulled down and Aziraphale’s mouth is on him unencumbered. He swallows Crowley down and it’s too much. He comes with a sharp, quick cry. Aziraphale continues to suck him while twisting his fingers to fuck him. Crowley tosses his head, moaning until it’s too much. Then Aziraphale licks his way up and off Crowley’s shaft. The fingers, however, stay inside him, slowly pumping. Crowley rolls his hips and cries out again.

“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale praises, almost moaning himself. He stretches up and kisses Crowley. The kiss is languid; it matches the speed of his fingers. Crowley writhes and he leans in for another kiss. Aziraphale meets it, letting his tongue stroke Crowley’s. “So beautiful. What you do to me.” He stokes up Crowley’s side. The demon’s shirt wrinkles under his hand. He pushes Crowley down, so his back is lying on the counter. The kettle pushes agaisnt his shoulder. Crowley’s legs are still held around Aziraphale by his trousers. The angel takes all this in and licks his lips.

Crowley knows that Aziraphale hungers to see him come undone. It’s been a hell of two days; it’s been a hell of six thousand years. After being forced apart for so many years, Aziraphale likes to linger and care for Crowley. He seems to get as much out of it as Crowley does.

Aziraphale’s fingers curl and Crowley bucks again. He can feel his cock filling, hard and hot. Aziraphale presses a hand onto Crowley’s chest and holds him down. He curls his fingers again. Unable to move, Crowley whines.

“My darling,” Aziraphale praises and leans down to kiss Crowley’s mouth. “You are stunning.” He pats Crowley’s chest as a reminder to stay put. Next, he wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock and strokes him at the same pace that he’s fingering him. Crowley’s body quivers. Aziraphale drinks all this in.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sobs and rocks into the angel’s grip, “I need…”

He never has to say what he needs in moments like this, they’ve been friends for so long, Aziraphale can read him like one of his precious books. Another finger joins the first two and they fuck into Crowley faster. The hand on his cock pumps with a tighter grip. Crowley gasps twice and Aziraphale leans down to kiss him, gentle and loving. His eyes are dark with desire.

“Now, my darling.”

And Crowley comes. He spills across Aziraphale’s hand and his own shirt. He locks gazes with the angel as his anus tightens around Aziraphale’s fingers. His breath stutters and Aziraphale bites his lip, entranced.

“Yes, my dear boy, oh yes,” he whispers, before withdrawing his fingers from inside the demon. Crowley whines at their removal. Aziraphale cups Crowley’s softening cock and then moves this hand to brush through the sweaty curls on Crowley’s forehead. “You did so well, my darling. So beautiful.”

Crowley can only mew. He’s wrung out.

“Shall I take you upstairs?” Aziraphale asks, leaning down to shimmy out from the circle of Crowley’s legs and jeans.

Crowley nods from atop the counter. Aziraphale lifts him into a bridal carry. He turns his head into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. His jeans are hanging off his legs and his lace pants are barely covering anything, but he couldn’t give less of a shit.

When they reach the bath upstairs, the tub is expected to be full of steaming water so it is. Aziraphale sits Crowley on the edge of the tub. Aziraphale traces the lines of Crowley’s boots and they shift into human feet. The angel smiles.

“I wasn’t sure. You had physical boots earlier,” he mummers.

Crowley blushes, “They’re in our room. We left in a hurry.”

Aziraphale nods with the same level of affection and shucks off Crowley’s tight denims and lace pants. The latter he turns over in his hands before pocketing them. Crowley is rather scandalized, but Aziraphale only shrugs and grabs the hem of his henley. It’s over his head and off, so he turns on the lip of the tub to test the water with his feet. With a sigh, Crowley slides into the bath.

He submerges in the water and lays across the bottom of the tub like an eel. When he comes up, the angel is unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt. Crowley hooks his elbows over the lip of the tub and watches the slow removal of blood hardened clothing. Once he’s down to his boxers, Aziraphale kneels beside the tub and lathers a flannel with a bar of soap.

He begins at Crowley’s shoulders before working down his back. Crowley lets his head hang forward and his eyes drift shut.

“You could join me,” he whispers.

“Someone has to keep watch,” Aziraphale replies. Crowley lifts his head and gives the angel a look of disbelief.

“Are you planning to run out and defend us in your underoos?”

Aziraphale smiles at the teasing, before standing and stepping out of these. Crowley slides backward in the tub and Aziraphale sits between the demon’s long legs. These same legs hook over his hips and hug him close. As he does this, Crowley steals the flannel and begins to wash Aziraphale’s chest. He peppers the angel’s neck with kisses as he washes his torso. He washes Aziraphale’s legs, buttocks, hips, back, and neck—the soak burns his skin a bit as the gold blood mingles with the water. He spreads an open fingered hand across Aziraphale’s chest and kisses his temple.

“I have to get out,” he apologizes.

Aziraphale watches him step out and wrap a towel around his waist. Crowley catches him looking and he smiles. He turns to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet and his eyes find the bloodied shirt again. Suddenly, the words spill out.

“We could go away,” he suggests. “Like I said, before. The stars. Some empty planet.”

Aziraphale ignores this and slips down into the water. He only wets his hair and face before sitting up once more. Crowley leans toward him.

“Angel, I’m not sure we can stop this.”

Aziraphale fidgets with the flannel. “I’m not sure we can either, my darling, but we have helped this time. The Horsemen could—“

“No, no, no. You said that Azreal wasn’t comfortable and that he was going to chat with War. That is not the same as having an ally. We know Pestilence is on board with this plan. Famine is enjoying the spoils of the virus limiting food pantry supplies. Just give Pollution a chance and they’ll run with it.”

Aziraphale hangs the flannel on the soap dish. “That’s more help than we had before.”

“OK,” Crowley agrees irritably, slapping his towel-covered legs, “sure. We have bugger-all of a plan, but we have possibly a Horseman on our side, plus one human witch.”

“And Adam,” Aziraphale adds slowly, “might still have some of his abilities.”

Crowley squints at him. “I saw you earlier. You were checking the metaphysical realm. Did you feel his powers nearby?”

This makes Aziraphale squirm. “We couldn’t feel him last time either.”

Crowley rubs his hands down his face. He’s too spent to put more energy into this argument. His hands fall away from his face, but his eyes lock on the shirt, and his heart aches.

“Please don’t make me watch you die,” he entreats.

The water sloshes in the tub. He doesn’t need to look, he knows Aziraphale is getting out. He offers the angel a towel, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he kneels on the bathmat at Crowley’s feet.

“My darling,” he whispers and clasps Crowley’s hands in his, “we’ll go into this together or not at all. If you want to go away, we will.” He turns Crowley’s hands over and kisses both wrists.

Crowley leans over and feathers a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. They stay there, bowed over one another as the drain gurgles and drains. Hail and rain hammer the roof. Crowley closes his eyes and listens.


	14. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, JASMINE COTTAGE - ANATHEMA

Anathema wakes early the next morning on her sofa. She has a kink in her neck.Strangely, her kitchen is sparkling clean. It is even cleaner than it was the night before. It gives her pause, but her attention is quickly redirected.

Aziraphale has posted himself in front of the window. He is watchful and grave.His aura is spread out beyond the boundaries of the house. Anathema blinks and tries to focus on its edge through the window. She thinks it ends down the lane, but possibly further.

Adam’s aura used to be like that—sprawling and layered. It was always loving and fun with yellows and bright reds. It was never as serious as the angel’s is now. Black of protection, gray of security, blue of loyalty all swirl there, but mostly, red. Love, passion, strength, energy, and power—every shade of red. She looks away.

Aziraphale is not completely present in her kitchen. The hair on her arms stands straight on end feeling his power. She walks to the coffee pot in a wide arc, hoping that space will ease up that feeling.

She stares at his back as the coffee percolates. The room smells wonderful as it brews. He does not move, even after the carafe fills. 

Alarmed more than she wants to admit, she climbs the stairs to get ready for the day. She completes her absolutions, washes her hands and face, and dresses. Her skirt brushes the tops of her sandals as she walks back toward the stairs. The smell of coffee drifts up the landing and calls her back to the kitchen.

The angel is still unmoved when she arrives and pours her first cup. She sips it and looks over Aziraphale’s shoulder into the garden. The road is pockmarked with singed holes-turned-puddles. Plants are burned to nothing and then dosed in too much rain. Her fence is broken and burnt. The land itself steams. The sun seems slow to rise this morning, almost as if it will be overcast today. She turns on the light above the range.

The light seems inadequate. Anathema starts to find the light switch but hesitates when she glimpses Aziraphale’s attire. He’s in his trousers from yesterday and an untucked white vest. She’s never seen him so underdressed, but then she notices the slash in the undershirt. It’s been hastily mended but is still ringed in something gold-brown. Clearly, he’d tried to scrub it out, but the blood wouldn’t go away. She cups a hand over her mouth and looks away.

Nothing was going well. Last time, things had been frightening, but there had been a plan. (Agnes, of course, probably had a plan for her, but that was burnt to ash now.) Last time, everything came together; she hadn’t felt this at sea. Now, she feels like they’re running for their lives.

She pours herself more coffee. Her hands shake. Anathema reprimands herself: freaking out will not help them. She glares at her trembling hands and wills them to be still. As if summoned to help her stay calm, she hears Crowley upstairs on the landing. She closes her eyes and takes steady deep breaths as he descends the steps.

When he enters the kitchen, she is centered. He looks at her, then at the counter behind her, and blushes very dramatically.

“Is there, ugh, coffee? I mean,” he coughs, “may I have some?”

Anathema is completely unsure how to deal with his clear embarrassment, so she focuses on finding him a mug instead. Crowley stares at the counter again and a deep blush paints his cheeks and ears. He rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head.

The demon walks further into the kitchen, toward Aziraphale. He lingers behind the angel. His hands reach out for him, but do not touch. Finally, he makes a decision; he shoves his hands in his pockets and rests his chin on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale comes back to himself slowly. He blinks as if coming from a trance and then shakes out his limbs.

“Good morning, my dears,” he says to them both, before giving a particular smile to Crowley. It does not last. Instead, something meditative and sad fills his expression.

“I believe something has dramatically changed in the atmosphere. There is… a lot of emotion this morning.”

Anathema offers Crowley his cup, which he takes silently. He glances down at the coffee and it is suddenly lightened with cream, exactly as he takes it. Anathema raises an eyebrow but makes no comment.

“I feel it too,” he comments before drinking. “Mostly negative. I feel like I’ve eaten live coals.”

Aziraphale smiles, but it’s tired. “It’s wearing on me, I’m afraid.” Crowley takes his hand and Anathema feels a spike of energy in the room _move_. A wave comes from Crowley and washes over Aziraphale. It makes Anathema shiver. Aziraphale, on the other hand, jumps back and stares at Crowley with wide eyes.

“My dear boy, we have drained ourselves enough these past few days. You may not—“

“It’s fine, angel,” the demon assures. “I’m already topped off. Whatever changed is big.”

Aziraphale looks back out the window. “Yes. Very.”

It’s a foreboding comment. Anathema shivers again. Crowley sees. He tips his mug against Anathema's and mouths the word “cheers.” Then he gulps half the cup in one go and sets it on the table. He steps back and takes in Aziraphale’s appearance. Then, he snaps.

Aziraphale spins around, bristling in anger, and lays into him, “Crowley! You must conserve your magic! We do not have the time or effort for you to be wasting frivolous miracles!” He habitually rubs his hands down his waistcoat and the argument drains away from him.

He’s dressed again, as Anathema has always seen him. Camelhair coat, velvet waistcoat, blue shirt, and tartan bow-tie. Like her own meditative breathing, this seems to ground him. He gives an unconscious, yet satisfied wiggle. Crowley salutes the angel with his coffee cup and drinks. His smirk is not hidden behind his mug, no matter what he may think.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale acquiesces, “um, thank you, my dear heart.”

Crowley says nothing, even as he continues to look gleeful. He glances outside. Then his smirk falters and falls away.

The sun rises over the horizon, black as oil. It’s bigger than usual and not simply because of the refraction of light. Anathema drops her mug and it shatters on the flagstone floor. Coffee pools around her feet.

Out in the lane, street lamps pop on. Their light is sucked into the orb that was the sun. A neighbor walks out into her front garden and stares at the sky. She points, then turns in a circle, looking for someone to discuss it with. Tears stream down her face. Finally, she bends down and picks up her cat. They go into the house.

Crowley is clutching his cup. He says nothing.

Aziraphale’s wings suddenly pop into existence and he grabs a sword from the empty air. It gives a _whoosh_! and ignites like magnesium.

“Crowley!” he shouts and surges past them both to the front door. His wings are huge in the tiny space. They brush over the detritus that has accumulated on the kitchen’s surfaces. The toaster topples to the floor, followed by a container of pens.

Crowley snaps and he is dressed in his usual attire, sunglasses included, like armor. He cracks his neck and then reaches like Aziraphale did and draws a bow and quiver of arrows from nothing. Anathema throws open a drawer and yanks out the largest knife she has. Crowley looks mildly impressed.

And the room fills with violently bright light and a wave of holy power. Crowley is thrown backward and he cowers against the cabinets on the floor. A square-jawed angel stands in her front entry, in front of Aziraphale. Anathema collapses back in terror. Vaguely, she remembers him from the airfield. He wasn’t this scary then.

When he speaks, the house shakes and Crowley claps his hands over his ears.

“Do not be afraid! For I bring tidying—why the _fuck_ are **_you_** here?”

Crowley pules when the voice stops and touches his ear. A thin trickle of black blood runs out his nose. The angel in the hallway pulls a spear from nowhere and faces off with Aziraphale. Noting the new weapon, Aziraphale pulls his wings in and they disappear. The purple-eyed angel points the spear at Aziraphale threateningly.

“Seriously, you should be dead. Why are you here?” he barks.

“Protecting the Earth, Gabriel, as She tasked me to do, centuries ago,” Aziraphale remarks with more sass than Anathema was expecting.

With a huff, Crowley staggers to his feet and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. The blood smears across his face and hand. He lifts the bow from the floor and shoulders the quiver. He strings the bow with a practiced hand, barely looking at the work before him.

“And still fornicating with that,” Gabriel’s mouth twists into disgust, “demon?”

Crowley straightens. Anathema is fairly certain she has never seen him stand this poised ever before. He’s tall. He rolls his shoulders, then pulls a barbed arrow from his quiver and nocks it to his bow.

“Why yes,” Aziraphale replies with a happy little wiggle, “Crowley is a beautiful being. He’s delicious in bed and I love him, so, yes, we are.”

Anathema tries to stand but her legs are so weak that they feel like water. Determined, she braces herself on a chair, but Crowley waves at her to stay down. It’s then that she notes Crowley’s blush stains his cheeks and neck. He is paying close attention to the angels and conversation is affecting him. If she wasn’t terrified, she’d tease him.

Crowley shakes out his arms and moves into a clearly practiced stance. He pulls his bow arm up and sets his sight down the shaft of the arrow. He inhales and with a practiced effort, pulls back the bowstring. She can see the resistance. Crowley’s arm muscles shift.

“I do not want to hear the obscene things you get up to. I’m here on Heaven’s assignment, so get out of my way, abomination,” Gabriel snarls.

There is a slice of movement through the air and Gabriel falls back against the doorway with a yell. The arrow fletching flutters much closer to Gabriel’s shoulder than Anathema would have expected. It cuts clear through the angel’s arm and out the back. Gabriel roars and clutches his shoulder. His spear leans against his side.

Aziraphale adjusts his own footing and grips his flaming sword assuredly. Crowley selects another arrow from his quiver. Gabriel pulls his palm from his shoulder and glowers at the gold blood coating it. He grasps his spear. A shield materializes in the hand of his injured side.

“You will not speak to Aziraphale like that, you feathered tosser,” Crowley warns through frighteningly sharp fangs. He nocks his arrow. “He is worth millions of you arseholes. He’s good; you could learn kindness and love from him.” 

He draws with an inhale. Gabriel charges. Aziraphale pivots to evade. The arrow flies. Aziraphale slashes. The spear and the sword crash together and Gabriel gives another cry of pain. Crowley frowns. The arrow has scraped across Gabriel’s neck, dug in, but not enough to fell the archangel. It hangs and drips blood.

Aziraphale swings with a short, deliberate lunge. Gabriel grapples, holding the blade against the shield. Crowley’s arrows have wounded him, however, and his hold on the shield is wavering. He jabs with the spear and Aziraphale dances away, blocking the spike from wounding. His sword’s flames lick at the shaft of the spear. Crowley squints at their battle. He pulls off his sunglasses and drops them into Anathema’s lap. He reaches over his shoulder for another arrow. This time, he is slower to identify his target. Aziraphale and Gabriel are trained warriors, but they are fighting in a small space. The tumble backward into the living room and some pieces of furniture crash into kindling.

Gabriel’s back faces the kitchen. Aziraphale’s blade lights the room as it slashes through the air. They’re moving so fast. Crowley is hesitant but takes aim.

This time, the arrow is too wide and it buries itself into the wood of the mantlepiece a mere foot from Aziraphale’s head. He looks up at Crowley, startled.

“Take care!” he admonishes, before slicing his blade once again into Gabriel’s shield.

Crowley blesses before grasping another arrow from his quiver. There are three remaining, Anathema notes. He waits this time, pulse jumping in his throat. Gabriel thrusts forward and catches Aziraphale’s hip. He shouts in pain. Crowley physically reacts, almost running forward. He stops himself, exhales loudly through his nose, and nocks his arrow.

“Don’t rush. He’ll be fine,” Anathema whispers and Crowley nods. He closes his eyes and controls his breathing. Aziraphale yells in pain again from the other room and Anathema silently wills the demon to focus on his target only.

He adjusts his footing. Aziraphale trips on a pile of his own books and rolls to escape the near stab of Gabriel’s spear. He tries to gain his footing but Gabriel slams him in the chest with his shield. Aziraphale wards off another blow, but he is tiring.

At that moment, Crowley’s arrow sings through the room and guts Gabriel between his ribs. He staggers backward and falls over more of Aziraphale’s books. He tries to brace himself on his spear, but he falls. His head collides with the chair and he lands on the floor in a heap. His breathing is ragged.

Crowley looks down at Anathema and offers her his hand. He pulls her to her feet, then enters the living room. The furniture is basically destroyed around them, but Crowley only has eyes for his angel. He crouches down and pulls Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder. It’s very reminisce of how he carried her in from the car the day before. Aziraphale winces in pain as he gets to his feet. His sword still blazes in his hand.

From the floor, Gabriel gasps. He looks at Aziraphale and Crowley in hate but then lets his gaze drift to Anathema.

His voice is weak, but he speaks directly to her, “I bring tidying of great joy which shall be for all the people who survive these end times. Thou art highly favored…” he wheezes, “Behold,” here he pauses for his breath to rattle, “you shalt conceive a son—“

“No,” Anathema cries. “I do not want to be a mother!” 

This brings Gabriel up short. “What?”

“No,” Anathema repeats, “I will not have a baby. I don't want kids!”

Gabriel is clearly discorporating. He is in a large puddle of glistening gold blood. His face, however, does not speak to death or pain. Instead, it’s complete befuddlement.

“If it’s because you’re not known to a man, don’t worry. The Holy Spirit’s power will overpower you—“

“I’m not a virgin,” she snaps, “and I do not consent to anyone overpowering me.”

Gabriel’s mouth works soundlessly. She points at him and all her emotions from the past two days spill out.

“You are what is wrong with men. You believe that you can do and say whatever you want—like barging into my home and scaring me shitless. You hurt my guests! And your homophobia is not welcome here. Nor is your judgmental-as-fuck commentary about what is ‘obscene’. And then tell me what I am going to do with my body! The patriarchy will fall, you misogynist!”

His face is a picture of confusion. His brow is wrinkled and his mouth parted with twisted lips. If he weren’t dying on her floor, she might have laughed.

“You can’t say ’no’,” he finally says, completely perplexed and annoyed. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and extinguishes his sword.

“Oh, yes she can, you daft twat,” Crowley rumbles. “No means no. And she clearly said no.”

“We need a mother for the new Christ,” Gabriel continues.

Crowley carefully slides out from under Aziraphale’s arm and transfers his weight to Anathema. She staggers a bit but holds him up. Crowley pulls another arrow from his quiver.

“I’d personally suggest manifesting a womb, then,” he offers, all sarcastically sweet. “Everyone should experience being a woman. The catcalling, the pay discrimination, and the slut-shaming are all very eyeopening.”

He steps back, eyes his target, and then adjusts again. “I’m going to shoot you now. You can choose whether to fuck off back to Heaven or discorporate. I really don’t give a shit which you choose.”

Aziraphale’s voice is soft from beside Anathema, “Crowley,” he summons gently.

Crowley ignores him, instead taking his stance and nocking his arrow.

Aziraphale tries again. “Crowley.”

Gabriel grins up at Crowley and his teeth are stained with gold. It collects on his lips and dribbles down his chin. Crowley draws his bowstring back and sights down the shaft.

Gabriel mocks him, “Go on, demon, do it.”

Anathema glances at Aziraphale. He’s staring at the back of Crowley’s head, unblinkingly. He does not call him again.

Crowley inhales. This time, before he releases the arrow though, he breathes out on the arrow’s head. A thread of smoke, grey and small starts on the barb. Then, it catches and the arrow is alight with Hellfire.

Gabriel’s eyes widen dramatically and he tries to pull himself backward, but his corporation is already so feeble. Crowley inhales and releases the arrow.

Before it can reach its objective, Gabriel snaps and pops out of the living room. The arrow pierces the wooden floor where the angel had lay. The Hellfire immediately licks at the holy blood, burning it away. Crowley watches the fire incinerate Gabriel’s blood, but once it’s done that, he snaps and it disappears.

The bow drops from his hand and his shoulders sag. Aziraphale leans away from Anathema and onto the wall. His left hip and right wrist are injured. His trousers are tacky with blood. Crowley gathers himself up again and turns his attention to his angel. He helps Aziraphale sit down before he kneels next to him. The nearly-empty quiver of arrows jostles as he moves. Anathema sits cross-legged beside them and chews her lower lip.

Crowley spreads his hands across the air above Aziraphale’s chest. Anathema is more distracted by this than she was when he actually hypnotized her. Aziraphale’s aura looks completely different like this. Unlike what he’d projected this morning, this is smaller and compact. Crowley pulls something lightning silver out of the air and forces it into the aura. He draws his fingers to and fro, almost as if he were mending.

“How are you doing that?” she whispered. Aziraphale smiles, wearily.

“He was created this way,” the angel says with pride.

The wound in Aziraphale’s wrist heals. New skin and muscle pull together like a darned sock. Crowley frowns at the progress. He pulls more of the silver thread from the air to fully heal it.

“What is that?” Anathema asks in wonder.

“Energy from the firmament,” Crowley answers, absently. “Starstuff—the power that makes the atoms.”

The wound on Aziraphale’s hip is deeper. Crowley concentrates on drawing his blood back in from around the room and the fabric of his trousers before he begins to sew it closed. It makes Aziraphale grind his teeth in pain. Anathema pats his hand comfortingly.

“Could you use that on humans?” Anathema asks Aziraphale. She hopes that she is distracting him.

With the blood, he looks more alert. “No, it would kill a mortal. We can heal by miracles, of course, but it’s broad strokes for me. Crowley is much better at it.”

“Had plenty of practice in the war,” the demon replies, still more focused on his work than the conversation.

“Is that when you learned archery?” Anathemas inquire, before looking to the angel. “And swordplay?”

Aziraphale grimaces in pain and Crowley mutters an apology but does not stop what he’s doing. “I was created to be a warrior. I know all I know through my design. I believe Crowley picked up the bow in Babylon.”

“Assyria,” Crowley corrects. His fingers hover as he inspects his work. He seems pleased. He sits back on his heels and continues, “Henry II had that Assize of Arms of 1252 which meant everyone had to be trained in archery. I did some teaching then. Of course, had to go fight at Crécy-en-Ponthieu under Edward III because of it.” Crowley examines the room around him and tallies the damage. “You’d think they’d have forgotten me in a hundred years, but no such luck.”

He snaps and the broken items are replaced with higher quality items. Anathema would thank him, but she’s a bit overwhelmed. The room is righted, yet the smell of blood and smoke still fills the air. Anathema stands and opens the window. As she flicks the latch open, she stares out into the darkness that should be morning. The black sun yawns over the trees. Birds chirp but are also nesting down again in confusion. There are no stars, nor clouds. A car ambles down the road as if nothing is wrong. Its headlights do little to light its way in the darkness. The sun sucks the light away. The world outside is so black, it chills her.

Beside her, Aziraphale grunts and levers himself up. He uses the wall to keep his balance. He’s pale.

“You need to sleep, angel,” Crowley directs from the floor. “It’s the only way the healing will take.”

Aziraphale tries to wave this off but staggers instead. Crowley pulls himself up like the other two and catches Aziraphale around the waist. “Couch or bed?” he asks.

“I’m not sure I could make it up the steps,” Aziraphale answers honestly, so they stumble to the sofa. Crowley helps him down, then tests the cushions with a press of his hand. He glares at the couch, then tests it again. Apparently, the softness now meets his expectations.

Aziraphale does not seem to care about firmness. He stretches out with a groan. He rubs his injured him and then drops his arm across his eyes. He’s asleep quickly after getting horizontal. Anathema thinks Crowley might have used magic. The demon sags into the seat so that his hip presses against Aziraphale’s bent legs.

“Do you need to sleep too?” he asks her. His eyes are uncovered. She’s never seen them so yellow or so earnest. “I could help you if you need it. This has been a bad day for everyone involved and we haven’t even been awake for an hour.” His offer is kind, without expectation.

Anathema takes in her restored living room and then the darkened sun. There is a very large knife laying on the floor in her kitchen and an arrow protruding from her mantle. A strung bow lays by her foot. And while processing all this, she begins to worry. Gabriel’s words echo in her mind. She finds her purse and retrieves the box of pregnancy tests.

“I need to do this,” she hesitates. “What if that’s what he meant?”

Crowley smiles and it’s something gentle and matronly. “We will deal with it, then. Now, go pee on your stick and we’ll count the five minutes together.”

Anathema almost argues because he’s being so maternal, but she can’t find the energy to bristle. He has protected her for angels twice now, plus stopping the end of the world. He has earned the right to worry over her. She just nods and heads into the water closet under the stairs.

The box has two white plastic sticks and a large pamphlet of instructions. These are fairly straightforward, although disgusting in practice. The whole process does not take long. She flushes, washes her hands, and sets the test on the sink. She opens the door. Crowley isn’t hovering, but he’s close by. The quiver still hangs across his back. Using her mobile, she sets an alarm.

  
Then Anathema slides to sit on the floor with her back against the wall. Like the rest of Jasmine Cottage, this water closet is out-of-date and cheap. The porcelain toilet is green. The cracked sink matches and hangs from the wall. Someone hung an ugly floral curtain under the sink. Anathema takes all these things in while she waits. Crowley leans in the doorway. He’s watching her, not the test. His eyes are warm. She gives him a tense smile, but this falters.

“Will Aziraphale judge me?” she asks, childlike.

“For not wanting children?” he clarifies but carries on without the answer. “He detests children. Well, no, he likes the _idea_ of children and he loves all of creation, but he hates being around children. Too loud, too sticky for him.”

His shoulders sag again and he tilts his head against the doorjamb to compensate.

“I meant if I,” she pauses, “end it. Get rid of it.”

Crowley’s tone and demeanor hold no judgment. “We believe in free will for you humans. He’ll bring you tea and fuss over you. He’ll say some prayers.”

“And you?” she hesitates.

“Free will, witch,” he emphasizes.

“Even when you yourself want children?” she challenges. He shrugs.

“It’s your choice and your body, Anathema. I like kids. They’re fun, but it wouldn’t be fair to have them in this day and age. They’d grow and I’d still be me. Never changing. I wouldn’t want them to hate me for it,” his voice drifts far away as he continues. “I have raised children before. Not just as a nanny, but also as a mother. I had to send them away every time. It broke my non-existent heart, but it would have been worse if they aged and hated me for it.”

Anathema’s heart aches for him. “Did they ever come home? To see you, I mean?”

He smiles, his eyes are distant. “I’m sure they tried, but I always moved on. Pretended to die. People didn’t live long then, it wasn’t uncommon to leave town for a fair or a market and return to host a funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” she admits, “I’m sure this is hard for you.”

“What, waiting?” he asks, gesturing to the innocuous little white stick. “Or babies? Or the end of the world?”

She smiles, pregnancy does seem minor compared to everything else. “I won’t have their animal for the slaughter,” she decides.

He nods before suggesting something slowly. “I’ve been testing a theory,” he begins, “I haven’t practiced on mortals yet, but,” here is pauses and looks at her frankly, “I could send you back in time. Not back to sometime awful, but like the 1960s maybe. They can’t pull you forward again, I don’t think. And you wouldn’t have to have the new Christ.”

She leans her elbows on her knees. “Or maybe that’s what they want. A baby born in 1960 would be an older man. Ripe for sacrifice?”

Crowley rubs his chin, “Yeah, it’s probably a stupid idea anyway. I’ve been watching too much telly again. Aziraphale says I look like one of the Doctors.”

“I hate that show,” Anathema confesses just as her mobile alarm trills.

The demon looks scandalized. “You hate _Doctor Who_? You bloody colonists, I’m telling you what. Throwing tea into the sea and privatizing health care is only the beginning. Now you hate _Doctor Who_. I bet you say it’s the letter ‘zee’ instead of ‘zed’.”

He lets the conversation dry up, however, as she pulls herself up to look at the test results. The stick has a tiny oval of a window where her results read. There one line stands hard and pink.

“Not pregnant,” she breathes, relieved.

Crowley smiles at her, and she’s surprised to categorize it as “parental”.

“Are you happy?” he queries.

She nods. He claps his hands. “Good then! No sacrificial babies here.”

She drops the test into the rubbish bin by the commode. “No angel babies either.”

Crowley hisses dismissively, “There are no angel babies. What would Heaven do with infants?” He waves his hand, “I mean _besides_ sacrificing them for questionable reasons. No, they want full grown angels. She just yanks out of the firmament as She needs them.”

Anathema joins him in the hall and glances up the stairs. A nap might be nice; it’s been an exciting two hours since she made coffee.

“If a Ghost comes and asks you for a shag, you say ‘no’,” Crowley reminds, only slightly teasing. “And if it won’t listen to reason, yell. Aziraphale has a flaming sword. Everyone listens to someone with a burning, sharp object.”

He grabs his bow off the floor and unstrings it, before checking it over. He removes the quiver from his back. It and two remaining arrows get the same inspection, then each of these is shifted away into the ether.

“Get some sleep, witch girl,” Crowley orders, before sinking down on the sofa and molding his body around Aziraphale’s. “I’m sure this afternoon is going to be a mess too. You’ll need some rest.”

She nods, kicks off her sandals, and climbs the steps to her room barefoot.


	15. EARTH, DORKING, SURREY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MINOR CHARACTER DEATH

Newton Pulsifer is in his childhood bedroom. Cardboard moving boxes line each wall—proof that he gave up the dream of London and of Anathema. Dirk Turpin is parked down the street next to a chippy—proof that he once knew the honest-to-God-Anti-Christ. His mother is downstairs—proof that nothing ever goes the way Newt wants. It’s all very unfortunate.

Newt long ago stopped feeling sorry for himself. He wanted to be a computer engineer but imploded any technology he touched. He wrote that off as a loss. He wanted to marry Anathema and raise two-point-five kids with a white picket fence. That’s a loss now too.

Now, he can admit, those dreams are petty. All he wants now if for the sun to not be a black pit.

It’s hot outside as if the summer sun were baking the pavement, but there is no sun. Its facsimile radiates heat. It also absorbs light. The streetlights are on. His bedroom lamp is on. It doesn’t matter. These do not put out the waves of light they always have. Instead, these are absorbed into the black sun.

Newt can read if he holds his Witchfinders’ Manual directly under his lamp. There is no reference to any of this in it. Plus, being so close to the lamp is hurting his head. He gives it up. Another loss.

That morning, his father declared that this was the end of the world. He grabbed out a handle of tequila, got sloshed, and went to church.

(The Pulsifers were sporadic churchgoers, but not really believers. It came from being descents of Puritans, Newt thought. Their ancestors had too much belief, so he has none.)

Newt’s mother, on the other hand, decided now was the time to start canning. She’d risen early, gone to the market, and returned with bags of fruit. Jam, apparently, was her plan.

Now, with the beginnings of a headache and no viable source of light, Newt makes his own plan. He’ll go to Anathema. The world almost ended once in Lower Tadfield, maybe there’s a way to stop it again from the same place. He grabs his wallet and keys and takes the stairs two at a time.

His mother meets him at the door.

“Newton! It’s the end of the world, you can’t just run out without giving me a kiss!” she declares.

He leans down and pecks her cheek. “Sorry about that, Mum.”

“Where are you going, anyhow? St. Martin’s? Your father is there, bless him, probably pissed seven ways to Sunday.”

(Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer and his close relations would roll in their collective graves if they knew about the alcohol, the cursing, the jam-making, the spotty church attendance, and all the rest.)

“I thought I’d drive over and see Anathema,” he admits.

His mother glares. “The witch again! Son, the world is ending. There is a big beast in London and you’re off to see a witch! She’s probably worshipping it!”

Newt sighs. “She’s an occultist, Mum, not a witch.”

(This was neither exactly true nor the first time they’d had this row.)

“If you go out there and die, I’ll never forgive you,” she rambles on. “Just like you, my brilliant boy, running off to break your mum’s old heart.”

Newt sighs, kisses her cheek again, and jingles his keys. “Good luck with the jam. I’ll see you soon.”

She laments the fact that he is leaving her all alone in an empty house as the sun burns out. He closes the door in the middle of her spiel and hurries toward Dirk Turpin. The darkness is thick and uncomfortable to be out in. His car feels safer.

As he nears it, the earth rolls. The earthquake throws him against the building's window. He overcompensates and topples into Dirk Turpin. The quake intensifies and the building behind him groans and wobbles. The electric sign for the chippy blinks, almost going out, and buzzes back on. Newt looks up as the top of the building sways toward him. He ducks, trying to get out of the way, but the ground shakes again and he falls back against his car again. As the top of the building crashes onto him, Newt sighs.

His mother did say she’d never forgive him if he died out here. He decides he can give it all up as a loss too.

He hears the bricks of the building impact Dirk Turpin and all goes black.

The next thing he knows, he is standing next to his body and the Angel of Death is waiting for him.

I WOULDN’T LOOK IF I WERE YOU. IT’S NOT PRETTY.

“Good advice,” Newt agrees and does not look.

THANKS FOR NOT FREAKING OUT. IT’S A LOT TO TAKE WHEN FOLKS GET ALL WEEPY.

“I’m not really that sort,” Newt comments and absently watches the aftershocks roll through his childhood street. “This is all very dramatic. It wasn’t this bad last time.”

DEPENDS WHO YOU ASK. I DO MISS THE MOTORCYCLE THOUGH.

“You could get one, you know. You only live once—er, well, you maybe not. I think that’s the saying anyway.”

Death ushers him along into a bright light, but they continue to chat as the English do. It’s nice and calm.

I APPRECIATE THAT. IT'S TIME TO GO NOW, ENJOY ETERNITY.

“See you around sometime?”

UNLIKELY.

“Well, good luck then.”

TA.

Newt gives Death a little wave and steps into the afterlife.


	16. EARTH, HONG KONG, KAI TAK

Beelzebub and Dagon surface. Around them, uniform white and gray buildings have been leveled. The rubble smokes. Tsunami waves suck back into the ocean through the streets. Their retreat leaves inches of seawater and rubbish. Beelzebub glares at the water as it pours into their shoes.

Helicopters buzz above them and large, military jets circle like vultures. Another aftershock rocks the ground and Dagon stumbles. Habitually, she reaches out to brace herself with her right hand… but it’s severed off at the wrist. Beelzebub catches her by the shoulder and balances her. The water sloshes against their shins. She wonders if she should shift into a fish and just swim.

“Where is the beast?” she grumbles, still human-shaped.

“The humans blew it up,” Beelzebub buzzes in frustration. “Let’s find that idiot Hastur.”

The smell of the grave is under the odor of gasoline, sea salt, and gunpowder. They follow it to a cruise port. The Terminal buildings are flattened and the docks themselves are underwater. Hastur is standing on a chunk of cement. Leaned against it is a giant chunk of bloody meat. It might have been part of a hoof.

Hastur’s face lights from the glow of a cigar. “Hail Satan.”

They reply in turn.

Dagon glares customarily at Hastur. “Did you collect enough of it to revive the beast?”

Hastur freezes. “You want it alive?” Then he comes back to himself. “First, we’re supposed to recount the Deeds—“

Beelzebub lets some flies loose from their hair. These swarm around their head angrily.

“The Deeds of the Day are as follows: collect the beast, and revive it. Now get to it.”

“I think we’ll have to, ugh, you know, go back to Hell for that,” the Duke suggests.

Dagon’s rage is rising. “I have thousands of reports that you have revived Hell’s operatives. You reincorporated and healed demons and imps. I need you to do that. Now.” Her teeth sharpen to interlocking razorblades. The reflective layer on the prince’s eyes glints.

Hastur shifts his weight. He reaches under his stupid wig and rubs his toad’s back.

“Why are you stalling?” Beelzebub elongates this question, clearly annoyed.

“I lied,” he admits, and the two princes glare. “I was never the one who, ugh, did that.”

“Let me guess,” Dagon cajoles without humor, “Ligur.”

Hastur shakes his head no but refuses to look at either of them. “It was that flash bastard.”

Beelzebub has had enough. She surges forward and grabs the Duke by the neck. “Who?”

“The traitor,” Hastur gasps. “Crawly!”

Beelzebub rips the skin at his collarbone open and tears it down to his sternum. He screams, but they ignore him. They reach into his ribcage and rip out his heart. He discorporated instantly. The prince stands, panting, as his body drops away and black blood drips down their arm.

“Dramatic,” Dagon declared, bored.

“I saw it in _Britannia_ ,” Beelzebub admits and tosses Hastur’s heart into the sea. “It’s on Prime.”

Dagon purses her lips in interest then kicks at Hastur’s limp arm. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, the lying, I mean.”

Beelzebub bends down and dips their arms into the wave that is retreating to its usual boundary. They wipe at the blood, then dip their hands and arms again to rinse it clean.

Dagon continues. “It is alarming to find out how much that angel-loving arsemonger did around here.”

Beelzebub smiles but tries to squash it. Dagon raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” she asks.

“I always liked Crowley; traitor or not, he’s slick. He bests us at every turn, even when he’s not on the payroll.” They shake the water from their arms.

“I did too until he betrayed us. Even then, I was impressed by how he did it. It’s good we got him away from London,” Dagon admits.

Beelzebub buzzes, “That beast is dead now too. All three, dead in a matter of hours! We’re down to the Kraken and Satan does not think it will do well in London.”

Dagon sloshes through the wave and sits on the piece of cement that Hastur had stood on. “And the weather pattern that kept him in Oxfordshire?”

Beelzebub waves absently at the sky. “Heaven’s doing. They’ve decided it was too much effort. That’s because they think their rogue angel is useless.”

Dagon snorts, “Idiots.”

Beelzebub settles beside Dagon. “Crowley’s a traitor and an wanker, but we have never dismissed his abilities. We should kill them both. Fuck Heaven’s plan.”

Dagon traces along the ragged, broken edge of their seat with their remaining hand. A piece of steel rebar protrudes by her leg. “You have something in mind?”

“I might, but it will piss Satan off.”

Dagon looks up in surprise. Beelzebub is vicious, but they are loyal. “On what level? Torture for thousands of years? Discorporate us?”

Beelzebub looks sick, but they carry on, “Give us over to the angels. That’s if we survive.”

Dagon’s stomach rolls. She briefly imagines what Michael’s face would look like if she was the one to smite her.

“Let’s hear it then,” Dagon replies, ignoring nausea. At this rate, she might even have a crush. Even so, she will not go the way the traitor did, falling for an angel.

“What if we go after the thing in London, use it on the traitor and his angel, then nuke Heaven.”

Dagon is shocked silent. She tries to find words. She inhales to speak, but nothing makes sense. Beelzebub is frozen, too afraid of Dagon’s reply to move.

She speaks slowly, finding the words independently of one another. “If we open that, even on the traitor, we will die.”

Beelzebub frowns. “I know. It’s a bad plan. It’s all I’ve got though.”

Dagon’s brain is whirling. “It’s just flawed. What if,” she begins, “we convince the traitors to take it to Heaven and open it there.”

Beelzebub summons their flies in and the swarm merges with their hair once more. “Could we convince Crowley to approach that holy of a relic?”

Dagon shrugs, “It’s your plan.”

Beelzebub glares, but it’s harmless. “A flawed plan, I believe you said.” They snort and look out into the distance. The sea foams around them. Helicopters spin above them. Wake ripples from their propellers.

Finally, Beelzebub speaks, “We’ll have to get the angel to deal with the relic.”

Dagon feels her teeth sharpen again. “So this time, we lure the traitor to London.”

“It’s the opposite of what Heaven wants,” Beelzebub observes, “so that must be the right decision. Let's go convince Himself of that."

Together, they stand, then sink into the ground to return to Hell and convince Satan to betray Heaven again.


	17. HEAVEN, CONFERENCE ROOM BETA - GABRIEL

Gabriel limps into Conference Room Beta. His arm is in a sling and his ribs are wrapped. There are a multitude of bandages. These might be physical wounds, but they still smart on the metaphysical plane.

The others are already gathered. Michael is not in her usual seat but leans in the corner of the conference room. Her focus is completely on her mobile. Uriel and Sandalphon both smile at him, blandly. Metatron bounces his knee.

“Well, hello, everyone,” Gabriel begins, easing into his seat with a banal smile. “A lot to cover today, so let’s get started.”

Michael perks up and pockets her mobile. She approaches the conference table but does not sit.

“Gabriel, I’m taking the helm,” she announces.

The others do not look surprises. Uriel even looks pleased with the mutiny.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel begins, his voice trying for managerial, but going into bitchy, “that’s not really up for discussion—“

“I gave you my role when Mother went away. It was a mistake. You have failed at beginning the Great War. Now, you can’t even get a human to accept the second Christ and got your ass handed to you by a lesser demon and a failure of a Principality.” Michael raises an eyebrow and awaits his reply.

Gabriel sputters. “And what of my successes?”

Michael smirks and shakes her head, “Brother, I have seen nothing successful. A scroll was signed, but nothing has been acted upon.”

Gabriel makes a dramatic wince of a face. It’s sarcastic, but not unlike a smile. It tightens his mouth into a hard line. “Ugh, the sun?” he declares, waving at the ceiling. “It’s black! That’s a very obvious success.”

Michael shakes her head as if she cannot believe she has to clarify this. “Only half the work is done. No one ordered the Blood Moon or the stars to fall. Instead, you have applies a miracle to the Sun. It’s still producing radiation and heat. You made an optical illusion. The third of living creatures are still alive. You have no successes.”

Gabriel twists a pencil in his fingers and leans back in his chair. This pulls the injury in his side and he grimaces.

“You’re deposed,” Michael declares. Gabriel waits for the others to defend him. When they don’t, he throws up his hands.

“Right, so now what?” he asks, sardonically.

Michael tilts her head and reads from her mobile screen. “Uriel, I need six battalions on the ground of Earth in one hour. Hell has lost their monsters that are guarding the—“

Gabriel arches forward in his chair, “What?” he yells, ignoring the searing pain in his side. “The Arc of the Covenant is unprotected!”

Michael stares at him. Uriel decides to ignore all of this and stands.

“I will get my people in place now,” she declares and exits.

Gabriel continues to sputter, “How did this—when did this happen? Hell turned on us!”

Metatron interjects, “The humans, actually. They have some advanced weaponry that we overlooked. It was all in a report… from the traitor.”

That failure rings through the room. Aziraphale’s actions are one thing, but locking his reports so others could not read them was Gabriel’s order. He sinks lower in his seat.

“As I was saying,” Michael continues, “Metatron, please address all of the Host. Everyone should be ready for battle by nightfall. About seven hours. They may attack any moving thing, except those in the Host, of course.

“Gabriel, the messenger of God,” she emphasizes his title. “Please blow your trumpet and declare the End of Times. We’re doing this properly.”

The slight stings. Gabriel struggles to stand. “Also, if you could check in with Azreal. You gave him an order, perhaps some follow up is in hand?”

Michael ignores the look Gabriel gives her and continues. “Sandalphon, go to Hell. Let any defectors know that they must be in the Great Hall in three hours if they want to parlay. Then, meet them at the elevators… kill them where they stand,” she declares. Sandalphon looks delighted.

Gabriel leans on the back of his chair, “And what about angels who defect?”

Michael glares. “I will take care of the traitor myself.”

“Others,” Gabriel declares. “There are rogue angels in the Throne Room along with some minor deities.”

Michael’s eyes rage. “And you were going to tell us about this, when?”

Gabriel can’t help himself, he shrugs.

Michael rolls her eyes, “I’ll sort it out.”

She marches out of the room followed by Sandalphon and Metatron. Gabriel looks back at the head of the conference table, before limping out to find his trumpet.


	18. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, JASMINE COTTAGE - AZIRAPHALE

Aziraphale wakes when Crowley spoons up behind him. He waits until the demonstills and snores peacefully in his ear before he closes his eyes again.

He wakes again and they’ve shifted. Crowley is laying on his back and Aziraphale pillows his head on Crowley’s chest. One of Crowley’s arms rests across Aziraphale’s back, while the other is extended over his head, holding his mobile. He’s watching a rerun of the old _Top Gear_.

(Crowley swears he likes the show because it’s all about cars, but if that were true, he’d watch the new cast too. He won’t. Aziraphale knows that Crowley has a crush on James May. He’s wild-haired, soft-bodied, and posh, with a fond for classic items. The comparison is not lost on the angel. Crowley definitely has a type.)

He lowers his arm and clicks something on the side of the mobile to silence the video.

“Hey, angel,” he greets and rubs a circle with his thumb across Aziraphale’s back. “Good nap?”

The room is fully dark now that the mobile screen is closed. He squints up at Crowley, trying to make out his features.

“Still sore, but I do feel better. It’s too late to order in, I assume,” he guesses as his stomach rumbles.

Crowley eases them into a sitting position. He pulls Aziraphale’s legs over his own.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” he notes, aiming for soothing, but missing by a mile.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale wonders and stares at the window in disbelief. Somehow the world is darker than this morning. A meteor shoots by and Aziraphale points with a cry of joy. Another zips by before he can verbally draw Crowley’s attention.

Crowley nods, mutely. He finds his sunglasses on the coffee table and turns them over in his hands. He looks despondent. “We just postponed it, angel.”

Aziraphale bumps his shoulder against Crowley’s. “Perhaps so, my dear, but we can’t give up yet.”

He stands. His hip feels bruised, but far less painful than earlier. There have been many battle wounds this week and the war still looms before them. Crowley puts his sunglasses on, then rises and heads for the kitchen, flipping on a light as he goes. It’s unnecessary for him, being a snake demon gives him excellent night vision, so Aziraphale smiles in gratitude.

Crowley is already rummaging in the pantry when Aziraphale makes his way to the kitchen.

“Eggs and soldiers?” he suggests, holding up a loaf of bread and the egg carton.

One spring, that was the only meal Warlock would eat. His parents had thrown a fit, insisting that he eat what cook had served. Crowley hadn’t minded making Warlock a second meal. In fact, he confessed to Aziraphale that he had perfected the soft boiled egg without a miracle. Aziraphale putters around the kitchen opening drawers and generally being nosy. Crowley boils water and submerges six eggs.

“Find the egg cups, will you?” Crowley asks. It is such a simple request that it takes Aziraphale’s breath away.

The world is ending, but they’re still here. Their partnership has been at the center of so many moments of history. This isn’t any work arrangement though.He enfolds his demon in his arms and presses his face into Crowley’s neck. Long fingers clutch his that squeeze Crowley’s waist.

“I don’t think we can go to the stars, angel,” Crowley admits, watching the bubbles collect along the bottom of the pot. “They’re falling out of the sky and not in a romantic way.”

Aziraphale huffs a humorless laugh into Crowley’s neck. “I guess we’re stuck.”

There’s a knock at the front door and Aziraphale leans away to look in that direction. He reaches out his aura and does not find a threat. He releases Crowley and looks out into the darkness. Adam and his three buddies all stand there, looking anxious. None of them are wearing masks, but Aziraphale opens the door for them anyway. Dog rushes in around his legs.

“Children,” he greets, “come on in.”

Pepper immediately begins speaking, “Is this it? Is this the end?”

Brian and Wensleydale also join in, “Can you fix the sun?”

“If there are infinite stars, how will they all fall? Especially, if ‘falling’ is objective because not everything can go down, right?”

It’s like someone dumps ice water over Aziraphale’s head. While it felt like ages ago, only yesterday he’d read Anathema’s dream journal. Written there in her blue ink, she recounted Brian and Pepper in a stone circle with a dagger dripping blood. Seeing their faces brings her writing to his mind. Then he glances over into the kitchen. Adam joins Crowley at the range. He watches the demon add more eggs to the pot.

Aziraphale shivers again in worry. Anathema had also seen his partner against a tall stone of the circle crying with deep sobs. If this is a vision, the angel cannot imagine what it means. The children are all talking at once, asking their multitude of questions. Aziraphale looks out the open door and counts the falling stars. It hurts too much, so he closes the door.

Anathema hears all this commotion and descends the stairs.

“Hello everyone,” she begins. The children call their hellos.

Adam slots bread into the toaster. Crowley collects plates and egg cups. Anathema looks at the latter alarmed.

“Where did these come from?” she asks, holding up an egg cup.

Crowley wiggles his fingers, grins, and checks the toast. The herd of children all seat themselves at the table. Anathema starts the kettle. Aziraphale finds a little balm in this. The world is ending, but humans march on. They find normalcy in routine.

He sits down, squeezed in between Brian and Anathema. Crowley chops the toast into thin soldiers and distributes them between the plates. Eggs go into cups and the tops are sliced off. Adam plays waiter as he serves everyone.

Aziraphale salts his egg and dips his toast into the silky yolk. Crowley settles into his own seat and watches the others tuck in. He eats slowly, using a spoon to dip out the egg white. He eats the toast separately. 

“I am thinking that we could launch a rocket at the sun,” Brian suggests. "It would explode and relight it—“

“You can’t blow up the sun!” Wensleydale argues. “It’s all plasma. Rocket fuel could ignite it and it could go into a dwarf!”

Pepper snorts around a bite of toast.

“What? A dwarf?” Brian asks with yolk dripping down his chin. “Like with an ax?”

Adam pushes his toast strip around his plate, then picks at the eggshell. Aziraphale eats slowly. He never stops watching Adam.

“What can we do about this?” Pepper demands. She looks directly at Anathema.

Who runs the world? Girls, indeed, Aziraphale thought.

“We are working on a plan,” Anathema replies.

“Right,” Pepper agrees, “what can we do?”

Adam stands abruptly from the table and walks out of the front door. Crowley isn’t even a half step behind him. Anathema keeps the other three children seated at the table.

“Angel,” Crowley calls, beseeching him to join them a finger.

Aziraphale pats his mouth with a napkin, before pushing away from the table. “Please excuse us.”

Dog is waiting on Aziraphale to open the door. He runs out ahead of the angel and sits down directly behind his boy. Adam and Crowley sit side-by-side on the front stoop. Crowley’s long legs are spread out in front of him. Even though it’s darker than midnight, the heat of the afternoon beats down on them. Aziraphale dithers before sitting down next to Adam. Crickets chirp and a dog barks.

“The world is going to end,” Adam says, certainly. “I can’t stop it this time.”

Crowley leans back on his elbow like a cat stretching. “We know.”

“I couldn’t even keep my house from shaking, during the earthquake.”

“Yep,” Crowley replies, popping the “p” dramatically.

“People are going to die and it’s my fault,” Adam declares, his voice cracking.

Aziraphale argues, “Now, my dear boy, this is not your fault. This is Heaven and Hell—“

“I could have stopped them! What if I’d let myself keep my powers? Or made both sides just go away?” A tear slides from Adam’s eye.

Crowley hums. “What if you’d kept your powers and your demonic father forced you to join his side?”

Adam wipes at his eyes. Dog climbs into his lap and licks his face. “Or maybe I could’ve stopped it all.”

“Maybe you could have,” Crowley acknowledges and Aziraphale inhales to tell his partner to stop this line of conversation, but the demon carries on. “Tell me though, hellspawn, what was the worst part of what happened during the last armageddon?”

Adam sniffs, “I forced my friends to do what I wanted them to. They didn’t even want to. I made them.”

Crowley leans onto the arm that is closest to Adam. The boy turns to face him as if they’re sharing a secret. “Did you like it? Forcing them, I mean?” It’s a leading question, without judgment.

Adam looks embarrassed. He wipes his eyes again. “At first, yes. But then I saw how scared they were. I didn’t want them to be scared of me.”

Crowley nods, thoughtfully.

“Angel,” he looks over Aziraphale, “when you worked for Heaven, how often did you do things that you didn’t want to?” Adam looks at him in surprise. Dog whines.

Shame races through Aziraphale’s veins. He clasps his hands and fidgets with his waistcoat.

“Heaven always believed in the directives they sent. I couldn’t really argue.”

Crowley looks at him from over his sunglasses. “Adam could use an example. He’s struggling, angel.” His words lack any judgment.

Even still, the guilt surges. He stammers, “Heaven believed that I should follow them blindly.” He decides on a story and starts slowly. “I was told to give Samuel dreams. He was to command King Saul to kill all the Amalekites—commit genocide.”

He twists his fingers and his voice wavers. “How do you give someone visions of genocide? Of the multitude of lives to be extinguished? Their stories and traditions lost? Women and children slaughtered? And all the animals too? Innocent cattle and people.” He clears his throat. “I gave the visions and then went into the desert and was sick until I almost discorporated.

“Only Saul didn’t kill all the good cattle or the King. The Almighty was angry and, in the end, I was told to inspire King Saul to commit suicide on the battlefield.”

Adam stares at him. Aziraphale struggles to meet his eyes. He is broken when he admits, “I had all that power but no choice on how to use it. I was directly responsible for the murder of tens of thousands.”

Crowley takes up the narrative, once he falls silent.

“Hell is no better. I was sent to tempt some Ursuline nuns in the south of France. It was, ugh, about 1613? Two of the sisters were in love—it wasn’t really a temptation. The others enjoyed the… er, experiences.”

He looks slightly guilty for the topic with a preteen. He decides to carry on.

“One of these sisters was an aristocrat who had joined the convent. She was a good girl.” He looks sad for a moment before continuing. “Hell tricked me though. They redirected a new mother superior; she didn’t agree with their lifestyle. She concluded that the nuns were witches. To save themselves, I convinced them to pretend to be possessed by a demon.

“The mother superior decided that the girl, Madeleine was to blame. She claimed it was a priest who, ugh, possessed her. They murdered him.

“The sisters felt so guilty that they kept on pretending to be possessed… they arrested most of them. Madeleine died in prison. Hell did all that and I couldn’t stop it. Every time I tried to right it, more people were hurt.”

Adam looks beyond them all and at the black sun. “They would have made me do terrible things, you both think?”

Crowley nods. “We have over 6,000 years of experience each here. You got a chance to make a choice and I’m glad you got it. We had to fight to tell them no and they still haven’t completely freed us. You had the power to do it as a child.”

Adam’s hands are trembling. “But what if that wasn’t the right thing? You said, before, at the airfield, that the Plan was…” he drifts off because he did not know the word.

“Ineffable. It means unknowable,” Aziraphale clarifies kindly. Adam considers this.

“What if I screwed up the plan?” Adam asks and looks at his hands. Dog noses at Adam’s palms, looking for pets.

“Then the plan was wrong,” Crowley proclaims. “Those things, plus so many others, that we told you about? Those were to the Plan and they were wrong.”

Aziraphale considers if he should speak. This was blasphemy. It was also the truth. “I am glad, Adam, my boy, that you made the choice that you did. Magic is helpful, but sometimes, I wonder if it was worth all the trouble it put me in.”

Stars drop from the sky. They leave light trails and Adam looks as if he’d like to make a wish. Instead, he stands up and he and Dog reenter the house without another word. Aziraphale’s heart is heavy.

“My darling,” he whispers, “will he be all right?”

“Will any of the humans? Will we?” A falling star reflects on Crowley’s sunglasses. They are content to be quiet for a moment.

Quietly, Crowley notes, “I didn’t know they made you deal with Saul. I’m sorry. He was funny; he always made me laugh.”

“It was a long time ago,” Aziraphale replies, but he finds it helps to know that someone also knew these actions hurt him. It feels like forgiveness.

“What was Madeleine like?” he asks. He wants to return the feeling.

Crowley smiles, clearly thinking into the past. “Bright as a penny, to borrow your words. A good heart, but too much guilt.”

“Sounds like someone we know,” Aziraphale replies, thinking of the child who just rejoined the Them.

“Just like someone I love,” Crowley agreed staring at Aziraphale with open adoration. It’s the same loving look from the wall in Eden. He’s seen it so many times over the years and not been free to acknowledge it. Aziraphale’s heart clenches. He takes his demon’s hand and kisses it.

The sky is falling around them. They sit there on the step, hand-in-hand in the heat of the afternoon. The black sun burns down on them.

“I think we should go to London,” Crowley suggests, looking around. “I keep thinking that there is something there they want to keep us away from. I think it’s within our power to stop it.”

Aziraphale considers how he could respond. “I’ve been thinking about where to go too. Anathema had a dream about the Rollright Stones and the Them. You were there. I think the children made a sacrifice.”

Crowley frowns deeply. “To whom would they sacrifice anything? And what would they slaughter? Gabriel’s second Christ? Anathema isn’t pregnant.”

This is news to Aziraphale and he considers Crowley’s hand, held fast in his own.Finally, he settles on these words. “We’ll go to London then.”

Neither of them knows if it is the right decision. Even so, it’s now decided. They return to the table and eat. The Them are subdued. Anathema clearly wants to know also but is trying to be patient.

Finally, Pepper can’t handle it anymore.

“You made a plan,” she states, but it ends like a question. She does not doubt that Adam makes plans. And given the joint meeting with an angel and demon, it must be a good one. Aziraphale hates to ruin her good faith.

He finishes his cold toast and egg. “We have. Crowley and I are going to London.”

Anathema looks startled, “When?”

“As soon as we finish here,” Crowley answers.

“What should I bring?” Anathema asks, already standing to gather her things.

“Should we text our parents?” Wensleydale asks as he digs his mobile from his pocket.

“My mum can make sandwiches!” Brian announces.

“No,” Adam halts them all. “No, we’re staying here. They have to do this.” He says it so assuredly as if someone has already told him what is going to happen.

Aziraphale feels a creep of discomfort. “Why would you say it that way, my boy?”

“I just know,” he replies. And he does know, that much Aziraphale is sure, for his eyes glaze over and then shine red. Adam stares into the distance and sharply winces. The Them all scoot away from the table, terrified. Dog yelps. Adam’s voice is not his own. Instead, it’s rough and deep.

_“The power from on high is seated in Her Ark along with Her Commandments, Aaron’s rod, and a golden pot of manna. It was once taken into Babylon, but then into Heaven. Now, it waits in Britannia to be opened. Her Host will wait for Her Seven bowls will pour onto Earth. Those thrown from Heaven will rise up and bring about their destruction! The Host will tear their clothes for they have dishonored Her for their own glory. Those thrown from Heaven will dig into the dirt with joy; they will rule over humanity with iron fists. The End will come without the Great War but with Hellish triumph!”_

And Adam collapses forward onto the tabletop. Crowley grabs his shoulders and shakes him. Adam’s head lolls limply. Then, he blinks and sits up. He’s sapped of his usual eager energy.

“I think,” he groans, “that was a message.”

“I’ll say,” Wensleydale agrees, trying not to look or sound shaken.

Crowley insists that Adam drink water and keep running his hands over Adam’s aura. Meanwhile, Aziraphale turns the words over in his mind.

“I’ll make cocoa,” he decides. He expects everything to be on the counter when he gets there, so it is. It’s soothing to light the burner, then to add the milk and cocoa powder. He stirs.

Each word he contemplates as the drink comes together. Some are visual memories: Babylon, manna, the fire of Her justice. Behind him, Crowley asks the children about Rollright Stone Circle, but Aziraphale is too deep in his mind to distinguish their responses. The milk foams into chocolate bubbles and Aziraphale pours a portion into six different mugs. He hands the empty seventh cup to Crowley, who snaps. A bottle of 1990 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti appears before him. (Some sommelier at a Michelin star restaurant will have a heart attack the next time they do inventory, but that is neither here nor there.) He uncorks it and lets it breathe.

The children take their drinks with murmurs of thanks. Anathema stands and finds the whiskey. She tips a sizable amount into her cocoa.

“So what did all that mean?” Brian finally asks. He has chocolate smeared across his upper lip. The color works well with the previous egg yolk on his chin. He is rather like a Pollock painting, Aziraphale thinks.

“Adam knows, don’t you, Adam?” Brian demands. Adam looks away.

Thoughtfully, Aziraphale sips his cocoa. “First, it means that someone believes Adam is still a conduit.”

Adam looks alarmed. Feeling his disease, Dog jumps into his lap. The boy rubs his ears soothingly.

“That makes us ask, who? He’s thrown off his parentage and denied his demonic father, so could it be Heaven?” Aziraphale traces his finger around the rim of his mug. "It seems unlikely from the message.” 

“Why would H-E-Double hockey sticks,” Brian asks (This is before Pepper sneers and tells him to “say ‘Hell’, Brian, it’s not like we don’t already know it’s a real place!”), “want to mess with Adam? He’s not the Anti-Christ anymore.”

Crowley pours the expensive Pinot Noir into his cup. It’s not a small amount. “But he is Hell-forged. Same as Dog. Same as me.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale argues, “you are fallen, it’s different.”

“The lake of sulfur I fell into would argue,” Crowley snipes. “The point is, we’re made of the same stuff. Adam gave up his powers, but he can’t give up his make up. None of us can. Plus, that wasn’t a miracle or divine inspiration. That was a message straight from Downstairs.”

Adam looks sick. Aziraphale reaches out and pats his hand. It comes off condescendingly, although that’s not how the gesture was meant.

Crowley saves him. Again. “Easy, hellspawn. Remember what we said. You made the choice. That’s important.” He sips his wine. “They dropped the information into your head, right?”

Adam nods. He still looks nauseous.

“That always gave me an instant migraine. They could just as easily have said it to me, but they like the control,” he says it so simply, but it hurts Aziraphale to the core. My, how their Head Offices have damaged them both.

“I want you to think back, without getting all guilty on us,” Crowley continues. “What did you think before that message came through?”

Adam stares at his untouched cocoa. “I knew they had a message. It just dropped in my head. I would have known it, even if I didn’t let them make me talk. But I wanted to let them. I wanted to know if they could. So I let them make me talk.”

His voice wobbles. The other children look anxious. Anathema stares open-mouthed. There is judgment in every face around the table, except Crowley’s. Aziraphale checks his own expression and is just as guilty as the other mortals.

“Curiosity always gets me into trouble too,” the demon admits. “It’s how I fell from Heaven. Kept asking questions. ‘Why do we have to test the humans?’ or ‘Why are we creating antibodies? Why do they have to get ill?’ It’s part of free will, hellspawn. We want to know, so we ask.” He drinks. “So, now you know what it feels like, let’s play a game.”

Pepper and Brian look at Aziraphale in alarm. Wensleydale leans toward Crowley.

“You can’t hurt him. He’s our friend,” he says bravely.

Crowley sneers at the boy with a twist of his lips. He mocks Wensleydale, “I’m not going to hurt him. I don’t hurt kids. For somebody’s sake, I ask you,” he gripes. “Right, ok, everyone can play then!

“I’m going to drop information into your head like Hell did to Adam. I want you to stop it from coming through.”

“Like Legilimency from _Harry Potter_?” Pepper asks, skeptical.

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale fields this one. “Exactly, so, my dear girl.” He then looks at Crowley, “Can a human mind take that sort of interference, my darling?”

Crowley’s brow wrinkles and his lips purse dramatically. “Dunno?”

“Really, my dear boy! Experimenting on the humans was expressly forbidden since day one—“

“Except for testing them, of course,” Crowley scoffs. “That got its own tree.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together. This isn’t a debate about dogma, this is dangerous. Before he can put up another argument though, a thought drops into his mind. It’s uncomfortable, a bit like reading too long by too little light.

**_KNOCK, KNOCK?_** Crowley’s mental voice jokes.

The human children and Anathema yelp in pain, each clutching their skulls. Adam winces, but not to the same degree as the others.

“I don’t want to play,” Anathema admits, before slugging back her drink.

“Me neither,” Wensleydale agrees. Brian and Pepper do also, but they seem disappointed.

“What did it feel like though?” Crowley demands, forcing them to analyze the interference.

“Like sandpaper,” Pepper says as she makes a face like she’s eaten a lemon. “Or like when the dentist flosses your teeth until they bleed. But like in my head.”

Brian shakes his head no. “Painful, but not. More like when you get your photograph was taken and that flash of light stays in front of everything you see forever.”

“A hangover on cheap booze,” Anathema suggests with a wince of pain.

“Nails on a chalkboard, but also something nice on top of it. And fizzy,” Wensleydale declares.

Adam speaks very softly, “Like flying. Like being free.”

And another tickle of unease begins. Aziraphale sips his drink to try and hid the face he knows he is making. A small tightening of the mouth and a squint of the eyes. Concern and alarm. Micro-expressions that Crowley can read like a book.

“Right, angel, you try,” Crowley suggests. “Just to me and Adam.”

Aziraphale chokes on his cocoa. Coughing, he argues, “Absolutely not. No, no, I will not.”

Crowley pours another portion of wine and chugs it. “Angel. Do. It. You know why.”

And he does. Because if Adam let Hell in and it felt good then they have a reason to worry. 

He pushes his mug back and closes his eyes. He’s never done this before, but he decides to think about whispering in a library.

**_Who's there?_** he asks.

This time Crowley and Adam make strangled cries. Aziraphale’s eyes fly open.

“Oh, dear! Are you both—oh my, I’ve hurt you? Are you all right?”

Black blood trickles out of Crowley’s nose for the second time that day. Adam’s hunches over Dog in pain. Aziraphale quickly waves his hand over Adam. Instantly, his body relaxes with the miracle. There is nothing to do for Crowley, unfortunately.

“So when I speak that way, it’s an ethereal voice, I think?” he guesses. His poor demon has been faced with multiple angelic voices in one day.

“It wasn’t even loud,” Adam confesses. “Crowley sounded like he was speaking.You were whispering, but it _burned_.”

Crowley pulls a handkerchief from his pocket (which was not there seconds before) and squeezes it around his nose.

“Enough experimenting!” Anathema decrees. “I’ll walk you all home.” She finds a large torch and herds the children outside. Adam leans on Pepper a bit but tries to hide this. Dog sticks close to his legs. Aziraphale casts a blessing for safe travels over them as they walk away.

He snaps and wine stemware of assorted shapes appear on the table. He selects a traditional glass with a large bowl and pours himself some of Crowley’s wine.

“Crowley,” he begins, then takes a dramatic drink. “It is _very_ good,” he observes before returning to the task at hand. “Hell can talk to Adam and heavenly power burns him. What does that mean?”

Crowley rubs at the tattoo on his temple. “You mean besides the fact that he just delivered a pretty specific prophecy directly from Satan?”

Startled, Aziraphale opens his mouth and stares. “You don’t mean that—that voice was—him? The Devil?”

“Technically, ‘devil’ isn’t a title, you know that,” Crowley admonishes. “I’m a devil. He’s the Emperor of Hell, the King of the Damned, the Deceiver and Dragon, the great Lord Satan. I mean, he’s a devil too, but, yes, that was his voice.”

Suddenly, there isn’t enough alcohol. The bottle on the table shivers and then divides into two separate bottles. These also shiver and divide. Eight bottles of very expensive wine sit between them. Aziraphale changes seats to be closer to Crowley.

“I’m going to get very, very pissed,” Crowley decides.

“Exactly my plan, my darling,” Aziraphale agrees.

And they drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we are nearly 40,000 words... this was supposed to be like five chapters. Whatever.


	19. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, JASMINE COTTAGE - 13 HOURS LEFT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!

Anathema treks back to her home by the nearly-useless beam of her torch. All light evaporates into the black sun. She is actively ignoring that and any other stars, falling or otherwise. Doggedly, she focuses on her steps. She counts each one, like a mantra. She knows these paths. She rides them on a bicycle and hikes them on foot. Adam and the Them know every crevice of the land here, but she knows all its roads and trails just as well. She does not need to look up to know her way home.

As she nears, she allows herself to look up at the cottage. It now hosts burns in the thatch and cracks in the plaster, which should not surprise her, but it does this afternoon. It’s a very English cottage, she thinks, only now it looks like it belongs in a zombie film.

The window is still open into her living room. Its pane is flung open into the yard on its iron arm. How many moments of history has this house seen? How many times has that window been open to greet such events? Today, it sees the end. It also hears the conversations of an angel and demon inside. It sounds like they are, as her grandmother would say, sozzled.

“—how was I to know, my dear boy, that wearing those beautiful red heels was something so very political? I thought mmm-they were jus’ red and sooooo I didn’t have them. White, white, white—always white!” Aziraphale pauses to belch. “All I knew was that Heaven sent me down to deal with the King’s bottom and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, shan’t do that in red-heeled hoes. Shoo. Shoes.”

“You—you had to deal with Lou’s leaky bum?” Crowley laughs uncontrollably and has to keep pausing to giggle. “You’ve got to be shitting me. You got angel bum duty in the wrong shoes?” His sibilant sounds in speech and giggles are not missed.

Anathema cannot imagine wanting to hear a conversation about anyone’s leaking butt, but she opens the door all the same. The pair are on the couch with a collection of bottles. Crowley is draped across Aziraphale’s lap. He tilts his head upside down to see her and his sunglasses slip from his face to the floor. His neck turns in a way it shouldn’t physically be able to. Aziraphale talks on, leaning and listing between the couch and his demon. He motions with his wineglass to accentuate his point.

“It was a fizz, a fizz,” Aziraphale waves at Anathema like he’s greeting a toddler or a puppy, “fist. Fister. Fistler. Fistula!”

“Hello, witch book girl!” Crowley exclaims, apparently drunk and rowdy. “We have wine!”

They have, in fact, enough wine to make most people collapse from alcohol poisoning. Aziraphale takes another long drink, then grins at Anathema. Crowley continues with a hissing glee.

“We’re talking about shoes! Get yourself a glass. Or a bottle!”

Anathema locks the door behind her and kicks off her sandals. She bends down and pushes the piles of Aziraphale’s books away from the wine. Then, she grabs the armchair and pulls it toward the center of the room. She sits on its arm and braces one foot on the coffee table.

“I thought you were going to London?” she asks, partially glad they’ve not left her alone.

“Mmm,” Crowley hums into his wineglass, before swallowing and gesturing with the same glass, “we do our best planning when we’re utterly pissed.”

Aziraphale nods decisively, “And we are sotted. Absolutely sotted. And besotted!” He giggles at his own joke. Crowley looks at him adoringly and Aziraphale tries to kiss his nose. He misses by a mile and ends up with his nose in Crowley’s eye, but Crowley takes it all in good humor.

“To besotted sots!” he declares and grabs an open bottle to top off their glasses for a toast. Aziraphale takes the refill gladly and salutes Anathema and then Crowley.

“To the world!”

Crowley snorts into his glass, “I’ve already drunk to that. I wanna drink to your arse. If I’m being inebriated and disgustedly in love, I wanna do it right.” Some of his words are warbled and elongated in unusual ways.

Anathema rolls her eyes and turns one of the bottles so that she may read the label. This was certainly not in her collection before. She sticks with the six quid bottles from Sainsbury’s.

“Oh my dear, not in front of our hostess,” Aziraphale yelps, which suggests that Crowley has pinched his bum, but he’s slurring and giggling.

Crowley is suddenly very serious. He stares at Aziraphale in absolute certainty, “‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?’”

Aziraphale’s face softens and Anathema swears on her own name that the angel gives a smitten little giggle. “Am I to be Beatrice?”

Crowley gives a drunken, short nod. “How many centuries did I do anything thou bid me do? Still would.”

They are making eyes at one another, like a romantic comedy. Anathema grabs the bottleneck before her and drinks long swallows from it. The wine is rich and she savors it before glaring at the pair on her couch.

“Then be my Benedick,” Aziraphale agrees, with a sloppy smile and quotes, “‘I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.’ Now, will you stop my mouth?”

Crowley gives a devilish grin and kisses the angel messily on the mouth. Anathema rolls her eyes again and goes to get a glass from the kitchen. The dishes from their meal are gone and she has little doubt that floating somewhere in outer space is a perfectly matched set of egg cups. In their place is a menagerie of stemware. She grabs the glass closest to her and then waits in the doorway until the sounds of kissing diminish.

“Stop mooning over each other,” she growls, “I’m coming in.”

When she reenters, they’re more plastered together than before, although no longer attached at the mouth. Crowley seems to be wrapping himself around Aziraphale more securely, and his partner seems to be sliding down into his seat bonelessly. Anathema gives an exasperated sigh and heads back to her chair. Before she can sit down, however, a ground-shaking sound blasts through the afternoon.

It’s the loudest, most powerful trumpet the world has ever heard.

Glass shatters, dogs howl, car alarms blare, and the world’s electricity grid fails.

As the power goes out, an intense pain hits Anathema like lightning. Her middle aches and she grabs the chair to stay on her feet.

The trumpet’s blare echos and is very slow to fade. Anathema is still bent over panting. Crowley has leaped up and is at her side.

“Angel, sober up,” he commands, then even more rudely, “now.”

“Already working on it,” Aziraphale replies smacking his lips. “Ugh, that is the worst.”

“Angel— _Aziraphale_. Light.” Anathema tries not to panic at the way Crowley is speaking. He is acting as if he can see in this encompassing darkness, which means he can confirm what she already suspects.

“Am I? Am I really—“ she begins to ask, but an orb of light springs into the center of the room, and Anathema does not ask any further.

“Oh, no, my dear girl,” Aziraphale consoles. His voice is absolutely devastated. He sounds close to tears.

She shouldn’t have even tried to question it. As soon as the pain began, followed by the instant way her balance changed, and the stretching and enlarging in her abdomen—she knew. She is carrying the second Christ. Anathema swoons and grabs the chair. Tears come immediately and in abundance. Her breath hitches in sobs.

“You BASTARDS,” Crowley shouts. He rails at the ceiling, angrier than she’s ever seen him. “She said no! SHE SAID NO!”

His skin flashes with scales and his eyes are wild and yellow. He storms to the door and throws it open. He bursts into the darkness and leaves her weeping.

Aziraphale gathers her under the arms and walks her to the couch. Anathema can see that she is huge, clearly at the supposed end of her pregnancy. She sobs again. The angel helps her lay down, although she doesn’t want to.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to her blouse. She nods but turns her face away as tears stream down her face. Her entire stomach aches and burns, from the outside in. Aziraphale rolls her blouse up over her mound of a stomach and inches the elastic of her skirt down and under her sloped belly. He preserves her modesty.

“They forced this,” he agonizes as he surveys her middle.

Her body did not have the many weeks to adjust to the changes. Her skin does not have stretch marks, but rips. These seep and bleed. Her muscles did not minutely strain to the changes in the fetus’ size. Instead, they burn and ache with overextension. Inside her, all is swollen and inflamed. She groans throatily around her tears.

The angel holds his hands over her abdomen and apologizes, “I am not as good at this as he is.” The aches and pains subdue at the same. “He will rejoin us shortly—“

But Aziraphale is cut off by Crowley’s yell. “Mother!” he rages in a shout. “ _MOTHER_!”

  
Aziraphale closes his eyes and every muscle in his face pulls tight with grief, pain, and anger. He is clenching his teeth together so tightly that Anathema can see his jaw tremble.

Crowley continues to scream at the sky. “MOTHER!”

When no reply comes, he begins to shout in what Anathema believes is Hebrew. When this does not work, he tries a language that makes her wince and the child within her buck. She wails in surprise.

Aziraphale rests his hand over her middle and blesses her with peace. She finds it easier to breathe and her tears recede. He rises to go to the demon, but the next words stop him and steal his breath.

“MY GOD WHO HAS FORSAKEN ME!” He screams. He does wait for a response before beginning his diatribe. “SHE DID NOT CONSENT! SHE IS A MOST-BELOVED CREATURE! A MORTAL MADE BY YOUR HAND AND THEY USED HER _WITHOUT_ CONSENT!” His voice strains from the yelling, but he continues to lash out at the sky.“And You will have Your Host turn against those that You best-loved? For what? To be tested? And what of Your best angel? You would let them kill him? Him who is so good—who is the most loving and worthy? He is more loving and kind than the entire Host times ten hundred thousand.”

Aziraphale clenches a fist and presses it into his open mouth. He bites down on his fingers and chokes out a cry.

The world is still. There is no hum of electricity. No noise from animals, nor buzz from insects. Anathema lets her arms drop down heavily and they slide off the sofa of their own volition. She lets herself sink into the cushions, unable to do anything but listen to Aziraphale’s stilted weeping and her own tearful breathing.

In the darkness, Crowley begins to pray. It is earnest and pleading. As soon as it begins, Anathema knows she must get up, so she struggles to do so.

“Oh Lord who has abandoned me, hear me.”

Aziraphale is already out the door at a near run. “Crowley!”

“Keep him that Your Host cast our and she that they have anointed safe—“ the angel must reach him because he stops speaking.

Standing requires a good deal of balance and adjustment, but lacks any grace. It also makes her hold a hand under the heavy weight of her belly to stop the pain in her lower back. Additionally, walking forces her to change the angle of her legs and cant of her hips. She grabs onto the doorframe to stare into the pitch darkness.

Only outlines are visible. The light that Aziraphale manifested has a blue glow. By it, she can see the gleam of Crowley’s leather jacket and the shine on Aziraphale’s buttons. Crowley is prostrate on the ground with his knees bent under him. His long arms reach before him and his nose is practically in the dirt. Aziraphale falls next to him and covers his back with his belly. He is whispering rapidly in Crowley’s ear. He gathers Crowley up in his arms and pulls him back against his chest. He covers Crowley’s head with his hand and hides the demon’s face in his neck. The tattoo on the demon’s temple smokes like a brand.

“The Almighty cannot hear you, my love,” Aziraphale soothes, “She is not listening.”

Anathema turns away and sags against the wall. She lets her eyes fall closed. Her body is heavy and unwieldy. She’s tired and hopeless.

“Now, we must get going. They have blown the trumpet to begin the end. We must protect Anathema.” Aziraphale hauls himself and his partner up, without any argument. Crowley comes as Aziraphale guides him inside. He steps free, however, when he sees her. His voice is raw from screaming, but still parental in the way it has been for the last few days.

“All right, then, poppet?” he asks, affectionately. He brushes long, cool fingers across her cheek and wipes a tear.

She just nods.

“I do believe that she is days away from delivery,” Aziraphale comments, his own voice not much better. “They won’t want to drag it out, if at all. Oh, I wish I had my bag!” He wrings his hands and then wipes at his own eyes and nose.

“Angel,” Crowley chastises, before traveling into the living room to collect his sunglasses from the floor, “you haven’t practiced medicine since the Eighteenth Century.” He also selects two of the uncorked bottles of wine. “They don’t use groaning chairs anymore.”

“I’m well aware—were you? I’m sure the last one you helped with was probably Anne?” he wrings his hands again. “I would rather like my bag, all the same. It would be handy.”

“Handy,” Crowley snorts, trying for his usual level of affectionate teasing. He sounds too wrung out to be effective. Next, he aims for redirection, “I wasn’t Anne’s midwife, just one of her gossips. I’ve never drunk so much spiced wine in my life.”

It’s as if he’s stalling. Aziraphale is looking to Crowley, but Crowley is lost. He keeps rearranging the way he’s holding the wine bottles. He sticks them under one arm, then grabs each by the neck in a separate hand, and then transfers them to one hand.

If only she had Agnes’ prophecies. At the time, Anathema had thought she wouldn’t be a descendant without the second edition. She had been a fool. Her ancestor had known what was coming and had sent her a tool. Now it was ash. Her shoulders tighten in self-condemnation.

Inside her, the infant shifts, and Anathema tenses in surprise. This brings the other two into the current moment. She ignores them.

“Listen up, freeloader,” she dictates at her navel, “when I was a kid, I swore that I would not say the things my mother said to me. I am not getting a lot of what I want today, so, here we go.

“You are going to do what I say because I am your mother! Today is not a good day. And, as your mother, I am telling you: stay in there. It’s not safe out here. You will stay in there.”

Something presses up against the inside of her. A foot. Now the little shit is talking back!

“Don’t you sass me!” she scolds loudly. Crowley’s laugh booms. She ignores him and snatches a jumper from the hook behind the door and kicks her hiking boots from their mat to the stairs. She’ll have to get help to put them on because she can’t even see her feet. “I am telling you that angels will murder you if you come out. You stay in there.”

Her voice has softened, even if she means every word. She uses the handrail to lower herself onto the steps.

“May I?” Aziraphale asks, pointing at her feet. Crowley smiles indulgently at them both, before heading into the kitchen.

Aziraphale approaches her slowly, but lovingly. He kneels down and finds her socks inside the shoes. It’s almost a ritual the way that the angel helps her put these on along with her boots. Once these are tied, he reaches out his hand tentatively. His eyes ask permission. She nods and his palm cups the swell of her belly.

“Hello, little one,” he welcomes, his voice absolutely enraptured. A halo of light glows around his head. The light bathes the room in warmth. She is comforted. His touch seeps into her skin like a hot bath. The child inside reacts with movement. It starts a gasp from Anathema. “Yes, I see you, child.”

He holds his hand there. Anathema feels his blessing flow over here in soothing waves. “I also see you,” he adds. She looks directly into his eyes and there is something sad, but infinite there. “I am sorry this has happened, my dear, dear girl. No one should have decisions forced on them.” And all of her emotions bubble over again.

“I do not want to be a mom,” she cries. “I really don’t want to be a mom to a baby who is going to be murdered.”

Aziraphale takes his other hand and lays it on top of her head. Another blessing flows down and she meets his eyes again. He seems to make a decision and then clasps both her hands in his. He shifts with a grunt until he’s kneeling. He bows his head.

“My dear, I swear an oath of fealty to you. I am your protector and your vassal. I bind my oath in the eyes of the fallen angel, the demon Crowley.”

Said demon makes an inquisitive noise from the kitchen. “What?” he yells.

Aziraphale smiles at her as if they’re sharing a laugh over Crowley’s actions. “Just say ‘I see this oath’, my darling.”

There is the unmistaken sound of things falling as Crowley runs to join them. “What have you done?” he roars. He takes in the hand-clasping, kneeling angel and snarls. “Angel,” he warns, “what did you just swear.”

“My dear boy, it’s done, just certify it.”

Crowley looks as if he could spit nails. Anathema has never questioned, however, how whipped he is. “I see this oath,” he hisses. “Now what did you swear?”

Aziraphale ignores him. “Now, my dear, do you accept my allegiance?”

“Angel, what did you swear?”

“I accept your allegiance,” she says and feels the weight of the promise pass between them. Aziraphale’s halo dissipates into the air. Crowley is livid.

“Honestly, my dear,” Aziraphale asserts, “it’s a simple trifle. I am bound to fidelity and protection. Nothing too specific.”

He begins to stand, but Crowley grabs him by the lapels and lifts him to his feet. He slams the angel against the handrail. “‘Nothing too specific’? In the End Days? What does protection entail? Did you swear it to Anathema or the Christ child?”

Anathema stammers, but Crowley ignores her and carries on. “Have I taught you _nothing_ about the wording of agreements?” He suddenly releases Aziraphale’s coat and takes a large stride backward. He disapproves, but more than that, he is dejected.

Crowley shakes his head, defeated, before pushing past them both to go upstairs. A door opens and then closes again.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale frets. He looks to Anathema, “Please do not think less of him. He feels things powerfully and has only been allowed to express it in certain ways for many years.”

“Yes, of course,” she replies. “Did you word it the way that you did on purpose?”

Aziraphale promises off-handedly, “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.” Which isn't really an answer at all, she thinks. It doesn’t sit well with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Notes:
> 
> Louis the XIV allowed courtiers in his favor to wear red heels on their shoes. Those who fell out of favor lost the right. Louboutin carries on this tradition with female's heels, but remember that Aziraphale and other men would have been the ones in the high heels.
> 
> Now, about that anal fistula... yeah, the Sun King really had one. (http://omgfacts.com/when-anal-fistulas-were-all-the-rage/ <\--for a fun read).
> 
> Allusions from Much Ado About Nothing. I know fandom really references this play for these two often. I just rewatched Catherine Tate and David Tennant in their 2011 rendition and I'm such a sucker for his eyes, I just had to include it. 
> 
> Medieval oaths of fealty were between lords (vassals) and their tenants (fiefs). It's a great system, lords give land and then make their fiefs fight for them in battle. (And we wonder why self-government became so big.) These oaths were often sworn over a relic... or with a snake-demon, whatevs.


	20. GALAXY A2744 YD4, 13.20 LIGHTYEARS FROM THE EARTH

The Almighty was not an American, obviously. (The Americans could forget this at times.) Even so, She liked one of their leaders, Thomas Jefferson. He was the one who gave Her the idea of being so hands-off. He believed that She made the world, then just moved onto other things.

The idea was liberating! She retired immediately. It wasn’t even that hard. She left Metratron to “speak for Her” and put Michael in charge of the day-to-day operations of Heaven, like a student left in charge of the class while the teacher ran to the bathroom. Nothing interesting would happen without Her. Plus, they sent reports to Her.

(Heaven sent MANY reports, to be honest. She wasn’t reading any of them, but they made a nice pile in Her inbox.)

In Her retirement, She got back to basics. She spent time creating. She found joy in forming things with Her own hands, instead of giving the work to an angel. No one else should be working with the energy of the ether. Even still, sometimes, She would reach out into the nothing to pull a line of power and someone would beat Her to that exact strand.

It didn’t happen often. Except when it did.

She was forming a new plant when She reached out and all the power in the ether was depleted. Not just reduced, but emptied. _Gone_.

Someone pulled on energy from the ether, but there was none to take. She leaned into the draw of power and found Herself connected to a ginger-haired fallen angel. Crowley had stopped time. Then pulled himself, an angel, and the Anti-Christ into a pocket of existence that he created so that they could talk. She thought more power into being and he drew on this.

She stepped back into her home and approached her inbox. The presence of the Anti-Christ actually surprised Her. She’d forgotten about that whole idea—ending the world just did not appeal now. Destruction was part of the cycle, of course, but all things end in their own time. Why rush it with a war?

The newest reports on the inbox dealt with nothing but said war. She went back into the distant universe and created new solar winds and new colors. She used the time to organize Her thoughts.

When She returned, Heaven and Hell had joined together to punish Aziraphale and Crowley. They had failed.

The problem had clearly sorted itself out, so She returned to Her retirement.

Only, in the past weeks, when She reaches into the ether, She sees Crowley plucking energy repeatedly. She’s hesitant to get involved. Heaven is clingy and She would have to stick around if She were to check-in.

On the other hand, Crowley is plucking power again.

And then another angel, Gabriel, pulls a good deal of power himself.

She traces the power to hospitals, then Aziraphale's destroyed bookshop, then to Oxfordshire. She looks out into the wide world and sees the changes that are happening. The war again, it seems.

The Almighty sits back in Her rocking chair in the middle of a distant galaxy. Thomas Jefferson believed that She created, but then stayed out of the world’s troubles. The pile of reports agrees with this belief. She chooses one from Michael and skims it.

Apparently, Michael had given Gabriel control for some time but finally decided to take back her reins. She feels a flicker of irritation. She created Michael to lead, not sit back, and watch others. Actions like that were what fed into the patriarchy. Nothing annoyed Her faster. She finds the report about Heaven and Hell discovering Her absence. She reads about placing the Ark of the Covenant into a disused Underground tunnel in Heathrow Airport as some kind of nuclear button. 

Furious, She makes a decision and snaps.

The following things happen instantly:

  * The Ark of the Covenant dissolves
  * Carbon is destroyed and the carbon cycle shifts to compensate
  * Certain politicians find that every time they enter the loo the toilet roll is down to its last square (and there is no replacement nearby, nor anyone to hear and bring them salvation) and their mobile battery is down to the last four percent
  * Power is redistributed from angelic and demonic ranks and hierarchies and instead forced into the ether
  * She seals the Anti-Christ (who is human) 
  * All single parents find about twenty quid in a clothing pocket
  * A fruit-shaped blemish appears on all children under the age of six
  * A clock appears in Heaven and it is counting down



Thus, She created solutions without upsetting Thomas Jefferson or any proponent of free will. A win-win, really.


	21. EARTH, LOWER TADFIELD, 12 HOURS LEFT, CROWLEY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sweet friends, please forgive the delay on this one. I've got three WIP, plus it's research paper time for all my students. (You want to see Hell? It's 8th, 9th, and 10th grade research papers two weeks before Winter Holiday Break during a pandemic. I have no idea what I was thinking.) 
> 
> I hope all of you are well and hanging in there. Thanks for reading and your kind comments. I appreciate them. - B

Crowley has many bad days in his 6,000 years on Earth. Recently, four of them have happened in Lower Tadfield. It’s not his favorite place. Jasmine Cottage could have been an oasis, but then Gabriel ruined that. Yeah, Tadfield is not a holiday locale. As if his spirits weren’t low enough with the end of the world in motion, now Aziraphale has made a very open-to-interpretation fealty oath with Anathema and possibly also her completely-begotten-by-Heaven-for-their-sacrificial-purposes baby. Yes, he is irate.

(It’s important to note that Crowley hasn’t really been angry since before the last Armageddon. Now, it seems to be his standby emotion. He swears that it used to be hope. Two Armageddons really take it out of a demon.)

Yes, he will calm down, but it won’t be in the next ten minutes.

He stops rummaged through the catch-all drawer in the gardeners’ shed behind Jasmine Cottage and rests his head on the wall. If he’s honest, the anger is easier than the panic. They have no plan. They haven’t even made a decision on their destination. They are going somewhere once Crowley finds all the items that he is collecting.

(He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for beyond “might be helpful”. Last time, he needed a tire iron, a Milky Bar, bus fare, cheap wine, a pensioner-aged couple, and a plant mister—but not necessarily in that order.)

There is a restlessness all around him. Crowley knows that time is short. Who knows how much of that book of Revelations crap was symbolic or literal? Aziraphale has studied it for years. He’s compared misprinted Bibles to multiple “final drafts” from multiple Abrahamic religions. Heaven knows the angel helped edit the original Greek texts as they were being written. If Aziraphale gave Crowley a numbered list of possible things that Heaven and Hell could do, it might make him feel better. It also might make Crowley the first demon to ever have an aneurysm.

Crowley rolls his forehead against the weathered wood. They need a plan. He’s good at plans, usually. He lets his eyes fall closed and lets the anger bloom in him. He hears the door that separates the back garden and the kitchen open. He knows that gait. He doesn’t lift his head. Aziraphale stops outside the entrance to the shed. He’s glowing and it burns Crowley’s eyes even through his eyelids.

“Crowley, my dear,” the angel probes, “are you all right?”

He rubs Crowley’s back. Crowley straightens up so that they no longer touch. He never stands straight, so it’s a notable slight. Aziraphale's fingers interlace over his waist. Crowley can catalog Aziraphale’s emotions by his wiggles, expressions, and gestures. This stance usually means that Crowley will fold; Aziraphale is guilty and uncomfortable. Right this second, Crowley doesn’t have the energy to go through with their whole song and dance routine. He rubs one eye with his hand.

“Angel,” Crowley begins, his voice rough, “we need a plan.”

“Yes, and I’ve been thinking about the communication provided for us through Adam,” Aziraphale says slowly.

Aziraphale twists his fingers tightly through one another. His jaw works in anxiety. He nibbles his lower lip, then takes a deep breath.

He begins to verbalize his stream of consciousness, “Why would Downstairs communicate willingly with us? Is it a trap or, perhaps they’re hoping that we will hunt for the Ark for them? Perhaps it’s a wild goose chase. Using Adam would certainly get us emotionally involved, as would the promise that Upstairs will be punished or that the others would be victorious.”

Crowley’s hand drifts from his eye to rub at the tattoo on his temple instead. Apparently desperately calling to Her made his brand burn again, so it’s a bit sore. He’s glad to have something to do with his hands.

“What would our Head Offices gain from us finding the Ark?” he asks, knowing that Aziraphale has some idea.

Aziraphale shrugs and sighs. It’s a whole-body action. He’s making his “we must follow the Ineffable Plan” face that he used to call upon when everything was going tits up, but he refused to admit his true feelings about it.

“Power play? Keep us busy? Perhaps they believe they can call Her back? I can’t imagine that any of these applications are practical,” Aziraphale finally says.

“Hell can’t wield that power, though,” Crowley says frustrated. “Plus, I’ve misplaced my shofar… we wouldn’t even be able to get near it without all that pomp and dancing.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shine with the memory of their long-shared past. “David was certainly determined to get the Ark back.”

“Yes,” Crowley smiles slowly, remembering something else. “I never did ask, but why did you convince him to give all the people bread—I get the meat and the wine bit, but bread?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “They needed a good meal. There was cake too. I can’t remember if it was date or raisin though,” his eyes soften as he thinks of that happy day.

Crowley lets go of his anger and it drains away. He pulls his angel to him. Aziraphale comes willingly and wraps his arms tightly around Crowley’s waist. The panic is racketing up so Crowley squeezes back. He does some quick math. Three days ago, he’d done a nineteen-hour shift at University College Hospital. From then on, they’ve been running and fighting. He rubs Aziraphale’s dominant sword arm and feels the muscles tense from overuse. A few hours ago, after a battle with Gabriel but before Anathema was suddenly up-the-duff, Satan decided to use Adam as a speaker. Yeah, Lower Tadfield is not his favorite place.

He tries to lean his hip on the potting bench but his exhaustion is a taxing and wild thing. He misjudges the angle by a mile and they tumble in a heap of tangled limbs to the floor. Crowley tries to grab a hold onto something. In the end, he shifts an abandoned beach chair and two boxes fall around them. Aziraphale holds his hands over their heads. (If questioned later, Crowley decides to deny his yelp when the box of books dumps.)

A novel lands next to their heads. _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ lays by their side. An idea spins in Crowley’s head. He’s only seen the films, mind, but the idea is still in that plot.

“Angel, how much do you hate deus ex machina?” he asks.

Aziraphale huffs. “It's a lazy plot device for authors who can’t find a way to solve their own problems. I know we have discussed this previously. Euripides, Aeschylus, Wells, and William were all much better writers than that! Just letting a god swoop in a fix things! ”

“Ah, leave Billy Shakespeare out of this. He wasn’t too bad.”

“I thought you were just soft on Burbage?” Aziraphale sniffs, jealously.

Crowley remembers devilish brown eyes asking about his opinion on the play. “Nah,” he draws. “Right, but what if we did it?” Crowley asks, manically.

“What?” Aziraphale sits up and tugs Crowley up to sit in front of him. His eyes leap around the demon’s face, trying to track his line of thinking.

“What if we changed history by going back in time? I really think—“

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale decides primly. “Who knows what would happen. What if the divine magics around us end up keeping us stuck in that time and we have to live through it all a second time?” He scoffs. “Besides, when would you go back to? The Ark? The fight at the bookshop?”

Crowley rubs his hands together, feeling the spark of creation aching to be released. “Heaven for your trial. I’d pull Gabriel into the hellfire with me.”

“My darling,” Aziraphale reprimands, “no, I’m not having you murder archangels—“

“—even to save the world?”

“—in my body.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re fine with the prospect, just as long as your hands stay clean. I see.” Maybe that anger hasn’t completely dissipated. Suddenly, he wants an argument. “Whatever happened to 'it gives weight to moral arguments', huh?”

Aziraphale stands up and dusts off his trousers. “That is not the same and you know it.”

“You know what I don’t know, angel? Why you made an open-ended, stupid, might I add, bonded agreement with a human and her celestially-impregnated child in the hours we have left on Earth?” He spreads his legs out as if he’s reclining at a picnic. “And why did you made me be the oath-binder? There’s another question for ya.”

Aziraphale fidgets with his fob chain and then gives a disparaging look. “You and your questions. No wonder you’re a demon.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he freezes. Crowley’s heart aches for a split second. He’d thought they were passed the “my side, your side” business. He looks away, even though he knows Aziraphale cannot see as he can in this darkness.

Aziraphale stutters, crestfallen. “Oh, oh my dear, I—“

“Yep,” Crowley interrupts and jumps to his feet, “that’s me. Unforgiven demon through and through.” He pushes past Aziraphale and out into the hot summer air. He keeps his tone conversational. “So new plan, huh? No changing time and certainly no questioning your personal motives. I guess we just, what? Wait until her water breaks and let Heaven come claim their new lamb?”

“Crowley, I didn’t mean—“

“—Or we could maybe go to London? Stop in for a spot of lunch. Let the whole thing burn around us?” he asks offhandedly. He speaks louder because he cannot turn and face the angel now.

“Won’t you stop, my dear, please,” Aziraphale begs, but Crowley can’t. If he stops now, it will all catch up with him and he’s fairly certain that he’ll fall apart.

“No need for deus ex machina; I guess we already did it with the whole Anti-Christ once anyway. Tell you what, you go check on the little mother and I’ll just—“

“Crowley.”

He ignores the angel and walks around the house, stopping only to hop over the horizontal stone fence. The lane is dark. The world is dark. He hears Aziraphale call to him again, but he ignores him and treks around the cottage to the carport. The Aston Martin sits pristine in its parking spot. He opens the driver’s side door and slides into the seat. The leather isn’t as welcoming as the Bentley, but that story is over. Perhaps this one is too.

Aziraphale still only sees him as a demon. Well, he corrects himself, there is more depth to their relationship now. He had not heard the heavenly judgment in months though. He lays his forehead on the steering wheel and closes his eyes.

They have no plan.

Someone taps on the passenger side window glass. Crowley does not lift his head.

“I need a minute, Aziraphale.”

“Let me in,” says a much younger voice. Crowley sits up quickly. Adam leans down to look into the car. Crowley stretches across the console and opens the door. The former Anti-Christ slides into the passenger seat and his hellhound hops into his lap.

“Adam,” Crowley says slowly, “do your folks know you’re here?”

“They’re asleep,” Adam answers confidently.

Crowley considers this answer, turning it over in his mind. “How long are you going to make them sleep, hellspawn?”

Adam looks uncomfortable. “I don’t have much power,” he says slowly, repeating much what he’d said earlier that day. “They’re just so worried.”

“And they wouldn’t have let you out of the house, I’m guessing?”

Adam shrugs with one shoulder. “They weren’t too happy about me and my friends coming over earlier. They didn’t know where we were,” he says sourly.

“They don’t usually keep close tabs on you, huh?” the demon asks.

Adam grimaces. “We’re old enough to not need a babysitter.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Crowley says like that explains everything. It does, really.

“Yeah, about that,” Adam suddenly says, “that’s why I’m here.”

Crowley slouches sideways to take in the kid’s face. Adam’s forehead wrinkles dramatically. “I don’t think there is any kind of plan,” he says and Crowley’s heart thuds.

“There isn’t,” he finally admits.

Adam shakes his head and interrupts, “Not with you, but from, you know, them.” He looks down at the floor. “They’re sending out a bunch of… messages? It’s like static. I can’t focus on any of them.”

Crowley frowns. Messages? He hasn’t heard anything from Hell. Why would they reach out to a kid and not him? Crowley holds up one hand, hovering over Adam’s temple.

“Mind if I listen in?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure, but it’s a lot of… buzzing,” Adam replies.

“Could be a lot of things,” Crowley mutters and touches the boy’s head.

Internally, he’s thinking of one particularly buzzy Prince of Hell. He closes his eyes and seeks out any outside interference. He dodges past the kid’s memories and thoughts until he finds the low-frequency noise—it’s like the rattle of a radio not completely tuned. Crowley circles around it and listens. He is not surprised to find that there is a distinct buzzing, not unlike radio static mating with a hive of bees.

_Prince Beelzebub._ Crowley thinks into Adam’s mind. _They’re who you’re hearing._

The static warps and Crowley feels Adam’s alarm. The demon tries to calm him and focus on the words shared in the message. It’s garbled.

_…Heaven will not. before we may act in the service of Our Lord Sat…swiftly move into…destroy what they…we had aligned… expected their falsity… did not expect the Ark…it is gone and…they’ve declared war on the…humans and us included…to arms! We march on Earth now!_

Before that message is complete, another message blasts in. It’s less distorted but sounds like it comes from a hundred miles away. _…the sacrificial child will be in Jasmine Cottage…detected Heavenly presences there…destroy them before the birth…_

Crowley wraps the noise into a web of firmament power and shuffles it away from Adam’s mind. 

_Do not let any messages in anymore, hellspawn. They’re going to war. We need to get away from here._

Crowley leans back in his seat and watches the distress dance across Adam’s face. Dog burrows under his chin with wiggly kisses.

“Nothing else, Adam,” Crowley says with finality. “No matter what.”

“Hell is going to war because Heaven did something at Anathema’s place?” Adam pets his dog slowly.

“I think that’s the long and short of it.”

“What do they mean about a birth?” Adam looks worried.

“Heaven has…forced a baby into Anathema.”

Adam looks panicked. “They hurt a baby and Anathema?”

Crowley sighs. “They did. They will. We have to keep them safe.”

  
The boy sits up straighter, as if ready to fight.

The demon’s voice grows serious, “Adam, I need you to go home and collect your family—get your friends. Bring emergency supplies. Come back here. Quickly.”

He worries that his order will be met with arguments. Warlock would never have taken such directives without discussion. Adam does indeed have a question, but it’s not argumentative. 

“How do I convince them?” Adam asks, eyes more frightened in that moment than on the tarmac of the airbase.

Crowley leans forward and lets his sunglasses slide down his nose. His yellow eyes shift to their less-human proportions. “Before, you have always bent the world to your expectations without conscious thought. Now, you’re going to have to _push_. Bend the reality, Adam.”

Adam shakes his head and his voice breaks, “I’m not who I was. I don’t have those powers anymore—“

Crowley lays his hand on Adam’s shoulder and squeezes, “You are less powerful than you were, but as I said earlier, you are Hell-forged. You are human because you decided to be. Dog is a dog because you expected him to be. Now, expect that reality will warp when you push on it. You’re going to have to work a bit more toward it, but it will do what you want.”

Adam swallows and then places his palm on the dashboard of the car. He closes his eyes. Dog tilts his head and watches. Crowley lets his occult senses loose and watches the planes of reality shift under the boy’s expectations and hand. Adam’s power is less than the demon has, but it’s also different. It dances along the lines of reality and finds the car’s workings. The Heavenly trumpet sapped the battery’s energy, but now Adam _pushes_ and it charges. In the same way, Crowley expects the key to be in his hand, so it is. He slides it into the ignition and turns it.

Nothing happens.

He pumps the accelerator and tries again. Adam frowns at the steering column. The Aston Martin roars to life. Crowley grins at him. Adam seems surprised.

“Lift home?” the demon asks.

They peal out of the driveway and tear down the pockmarked street. Adam whoops, their troubles forgotten for a moment. Dog leans into speed, equally excited. Crowley grins. He presses the accelerator down and the car growls. The headlights are useless to pierce the darkness, so Crowley relies on his demonic senses to avoid the gigantic potholes. He dodges between these with the same dexterity he uses to speed down Oxford Street or Piccadilly.

“No people out,” Adam observes, his own eyes darting about in the darkness.

“Good thing, I think,” Crowley admits. “Fewer bystanders.”

“We need a castle,” Adam says softly. “If they’re going to siege, you know, like knights, we need a castle.”

Crowley considers this and wracks his brain, “I know a place; you were actually delivered there.”

Adam looks at Crowley sideways. “You were there when I was born?”

“Born? No, but I was the one who brought you into the hospital,” Crowley admits, looking sideways. “You came from Hell in a handbasket. Well, a picnic basket.”

“What?” Adam asks confusedly.

Crowley grins at him. “You didn’t think it was storks, did you?”

Adam blushes, “Er, no.”

Crowley nods decisively and downshifts as they pull in front of the house. He knows it’s Adam’s—it pulses with the boy’s magic. There are broad strokes of expectations layered with time. The demon wonders how he and Aziraphale missed it the first go-round. Now that he knows what to look for, Adam’s adjustments to Tadfield are apparent.

With a grimace to his past foolishness, Crowley addresses the boy, “Get the others and head for that hospital—I mean Manor. We’ll meet you there.”

Adam waits with his fingers on the door handle. He does not look at the demon when he asks, “Will they die?”

Crowley rubs his fingers down his throat gently and considers his answer. “Some will. I can’t tell you who. I don’t know. War isn’t pretty.”

Adam continues to study the door as he asks, “You’ve been in a war before?”

Crowley hums affirmatively, “Too many to count, really.”

Adam’s thumb rubs the metal of the door handle. “You would have been my soldier.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t want to fight though,” Adam clarifies.

“Nope.”

The kid opens the door and Dog hops out. Adam swings his legs out but doesn’t exit the car yet. “Will they make me start the war?”

Crowley blows out of gust of air. “I don’t know. Seems possible.”

“Even without my powers?”

“I’m pretty sure they could give them back to you if they decided to,” Crowley admits. His fingers drift down his Adam’s apple again. “They might force you to want it. You might _actually_ want it when they’re done.”

“I don’t,” Adam argues.

Crowley cocks his eyebrow at him. “They have power, hellspawn, it’s not the same kind you felt before. Remember when he came up from Downstairs— _Satan_? Remember that pulse of power?” Crowley shivers uncomfortably.

Adam swallows and stands up. He steps out of the door’s range. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. Even if they try to make me.”

Crowley nods slowly as if he’s considering the answer. “Yep, right, good. Me neither. Not much of a soldier, honestly.” He has had too many arguments with Warlock that sound like this. He, the immortal adult with lifetimes of wisdom, versus the cocksure preteen stubbornness. Crowley concedes. “You get them to the Manor, Adam. As many of them as you can.”

With these words, they both remember the time limit. Adam doesn’t look at him when he nods decisively.

“I will,” he says and slams the car door to run for his home. Dog races around his feet.

Crowley idles there until the door closes to the house, then he revs the engine and speeds back to Jasmine Cottage. Like the Bentley, the Aston Martin was built for speed. When he shifts and presses the gas pedal, the car shoots off like a bullet. It would be a fun drive if the world wasn’t ending and he had a plan.

The sobering reality is that they _still_ don’t have a plan. One is beginning to form, however, slapdash though it might be. Crowley oversteers and breaks, allowing the Aston to drift into the garage of the Cottage. The extra velocity evaporates with a miracle and he parks with a laugh. It’s enough joy to make him feel more optimistic.

Of course, that’s when the Scroll is opened. It shakes from the heavens like a mighty wind. It reminds him of the Plagues of Egypt, but that’s a passing thought. He is out of the car; he’s not even sure if he put the car into park. Instead, he’s gracelessly running inside Jasmine Cottage. He slips and slides as he throws the door open into the house.

“Angel! _Angel_! Where are you, Aziraphale?” He shouts desperately.

“Crowley?” Anathema asks alarmed. She’s sitting in the dark, looking increasingly uncomfortable in the armchair. Crowley’s eyes skate around the room. He allows his serpentine nature to slip free. He lets his eyes lose their human shape to better sort through the shadows.

“Where’s Aziraphale?” Panic now tinges his voice.

The wind blows through the village and people begin to scream and lament. Anathema rises, unsteadily. She squints in the darkness.

“Aziraphale!” he cries out, nearly as a moan.

“Crowley! I’m here, my dear boy!” the angel calls as he runs, panting, down the stairs. Holy light circles his head as a true halo. It burns the demon’s eyes, but he pays it no mind. Crowley throws himself into Aziraphale’s arms and holds him there trembling.

“What is going on?” Anathema cries as she leans around to the open pane of the window.

“It’s the scroll of the end,” Aziraphale sighs, then gives Crowley a squeeze and releasing him to join her at the window. Crowley allows himself to be disengaged from his love’s hold.

“People are dying. Well, everything is dying. A third of everything is gone, right now.”

Anathema gives a shaky cry and pats her pockets. “I need my phone.”

She finds her mobile on a side table but nearly drops it in her agitated hurry. Her fingers tremble as she tries to make it turn on. Tears track down her cheeks as she repeatedly clicks the power button. Aziraphale pushes some peace in her direction, but it cannot break her panic.

“Make it turn on!” she orders, waving it at them both. “Use your powers!”

“The mobile grid is down, witch,” Crowley reminds gruffly, “all over the world.”

She seems to realize that making them power the mobile will not allow her to get into contact with whomever and sags forward. Her belly restricts her movements and both the demon and the angel grab her and bundle her back onto the sofa. She gives a hitching sob.

“I wanna call my mom,” she cries. “¡Necesito a mi mamá!”

Aziraphale rubs her back soothingly. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Crowley considers the math for her chance of survival and lets out a little hiss. Doing so allows his tongue to taste the air. He flicks it out to gather more information. Human crisis tingles on his tongue. It almost has a taste. At the moment, however, he just notes the late hour. They need to move.

As he stands, a sickening lurch of negative feelings roll over Crowley: unbelievable sadness and pain light up his inner demonic meter like a Christmas tree. He’s lightheaded for a moment, which only drives his panic into further high gear. He can feel the minutes ticking down, so he says, “Adam is rounding up his people— they’ll meet us at Tadfield Manor.”

Anathema hiccups, but Aziraphale stares. “You saw Adam?”

Crowley scratches behind his ear. “His head was being used as a satellite dish for the occult. Hell is rounding up and ready to attack. It sounded like the alliance broke up.”

Aziraphale frowns. Crowley continues, “We need to go.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins, softly, “I’m not sure that we should. She is too close to term—“

“Then we’ll go to where babies have been delivered. That nun is still there. We’re getting the gang back together. Anti-Christ, new Christ,” he says with a wave at Anathema’s middle. “Maybe get the old one to join us too.”

Aziraphale prepares for another argument, so Crowley cuts him off. “Hell is headed here. They’re after her. We need to go. Now.”

Perhaps his tone adds to sharp words, but it wins Aziraphale over at last. With a quick snap, his books are packed in his holdall and Crowley’s random items shrink down to fit into it as well.

“Blankets and towels,” Aziraphale orders and glares up the stairs. They float down from whatever airing cupboard they’d been housed in before and shrink to join their companions in the leather bag. “Best be off then.”

Crowley swallows. Aziraphale is not one for mincing words or deeds in moments of crisis. The demon tucks Anathema’s hand into his elbow and pulls her up to stand. Tears still streak down her cheeks and she sniffs ineffectively. Crowley guides her out of the car as Aziraphale closes the cottage’s door behind them. Some of the shrubs and flowers in the yard have died and dissolved to dust.

“Dust you are and to dust you shall return,” Crowley quotes at a whisper.

Aziraphale hums from behind him reverently. “Just as it ever was.”

The demon looks at him over his shoulder as he opens the passenger side door for Anathema. Aziraphale glows, but his despair has colored his halo blue like glacier ice. Crowley helps her settle into the seat.

“I’d always hoped they were talking about stardust,” he admits when he straightens up again to face the angel again.

“Perhaps the atoms will be reused that way,” Aziraphale says slowly. Even his voice suggests that such a thing is unlikely. He walks with Crowley to the driver’s side of the car and frowns as the demon slides the driver’s seat forward. Aziraphale purses his lips and shimmies in behind the seat.

“This is decidedly bolshie,” his displeasure rolls like thunder and Crowley considers laughing.

“‘Bloshie’?” he echoes sarcastically.

“Difficult. Disobliging. Contrary,” the angel sniffs as he ducks and wiggles. “Damned inconvenient.”

“I know what it means, angel. Just another one of your archaic phrases,” his commentary drops in volume as he glances at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. He also considers glaring but settles for looking away quickly instead. Aziraphale’s earlier words ring out again in his head, _“No wonder you’re a demon.”_

He slides the seat forward again and after some quick arrangement of limbs, the engine roars to life and they’re off toward Tadfield Manor and the former home of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl. Crowley focuses on the road and ignores Anathema’s sniffling. Aziraphale vacillates between offering her comfort and gasping in shock at the world outside the windows. His heavenly glow illuminates the scorch marks and disappeared greenery as they flash by like dark smudges in the unnatural darkness. A star streaks across the sky in a burst of light. It illuminates a human woman standing at her garden gate. She looks haggard and tear-worn. Crowley barely casts a glance in her direction before pressing the accelerator to the floor.

“Her pain is unmistakable,” Aziraphale frets. “We should go back! She could go with us.”

The pain that nauseated him in Jasmine Cottage rears its head once more. Humanity’s sorrow is like waves. He feels like he’s drowning. Perspiration dots his head and his eyes swim. His stomach rolls. Crowley slams on the breaks and the other two yelp in alarm.

“What are you doing?” Anathema yells as he slams the gear shift into park.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks at the same volume, he’s looking between the demon and the back windscreen at the outline of the despairing woman.

Crowley opens the door to the car and leans out to vomit. He’s sick again and again.

“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale laments the human forgotten.

The eerie blue glow darkens in alarm, but the angel does not try to exit the car. Anathema pats his shoulder awkwardly. Crowley spits, closes the door, and puts the car back into gear without comment to either of them. The sadness makes his head swim, but the confusion that spikes off the other two breaks through the sadness. He can breathe for a moment.

“Are you okay?” Anathema asks with alarm still threading her voice.

“Spiffing,” he snarks. “Never better.”

Aziraphale tuts consolingly but offers no reply. They drive in silence, only stopping twice more for Crowley to wretch. Each time he does, Aziraphale’s glow takes on a darker color, before cooling once they are in motion again.

“Are you ill?” Anathema worries, rubbing his arm. “I can drive if you need me to.”

“I don’t even think you could fit that belly under the steering wheel, witch girl,” Crowley replies as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Aziraphale huffs, clearly ready to make a prissy reply, but Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him. Anathema looks between them knowingly. Crowley glares at her and she does not pursue the issue. Instead, her hands drift to her middle. She smoothes the tight skin there with a frown.

They arrive at Tadfield Manor without any further stops. Unlike the last time they visited, it is actually spooky now. It is a dark collection of brick in a dark world. Stars sputter out over its roof. Crowley drives as close to the entrance as he can, paralleling the vehicle to the front door. He hurries out and lets Aziraphale figure out how to slide the seat forward himself. Instead, he helps Anathema find her feet and stand. Once she’s balanced, Crowley turns away. Fear and hysteria seep into the air and he tries to cast them out of his system by vomiting into a planter.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft as he comes up behind him, “what is wrong, my dear boy?”

“Feelings,” he replies and spits out bile.

Aziraphale tucks his hand into the small of Anathema’s back. “Yes, I can feel the negativity too, but it’s never made you sick before!”

Before either of them can react, something changes. Crowley cannot explain it, but the very fabric of him changes. He is, without question, more powerful than he’s ever been. He looks at Aziraphale and knows the same is true. Aziraphale, as a Principality, has always had more abilities than him. Heaven, however, had bullied him for so many years that he doubted himself more than he should have. Crowley had never bought into any of the claptrap about limitations. When he decided to push himself and his abilities, he did. Stopping time? Easy! Changing his physical form? Sure thing! Driving through Hellfire in a 1926 Bentley! Been there, done that!

In this moment, however, he feels infinite. He flexes his biceps and tugs, experimentally, on the fiber of reality. Time slows around him. He releases it again and it slides back as it was. At that moment, he realizes that he is more powerful than Satan.

“Fuck,” he whispers, frightened.

At the same time, Aziraphale seems to be testing his limits.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale says in awe.

He wiggles his fingers, appraising something Crowley can’t see. He blinks in surprise. “That’s new.”

Anathema looks between the two of them rapidly. “Your auras just grew.” Her eyes are huge in the darkness and Crowley can see the tingle of astonishment there. “That’s never happened before.”

“Something’s changed,” Crowley admits, unable to clarify.

He gags as another wave of negativity pours in. It’s more hopeless than before. He braces his hands on his knees and lets his head hang down in hopes of easing nausea.

“The Ark is gone,” Aziraphale announces, his voice distant.

Crowley looks up at him and stares. Aziraphale’s eyes are open—all of them. They stare in many different directions and on different planes. His halo is no longer shining in the darkness of this reality, but at whatever he’s studying with his many eyes. Aziraphale is still as a sentry. The demon can see the vague outlines of his wings are opals: whites, silvers, blues, with random glittering hints of pink. Crowley expects two wings.

Aziraphale now has four wings.

They each emerge from the same place on his back like layers of petals. Two stretch around him as they ever did and now two point up toward the sky. Crowley’s breath catches and he peeks into the next plane to see, yes, Aziraphale is a Cherubim again. He was once before when he guarded Eden’s gate, but his ox, eagle, and lion faces were taken from him, along with a set of wings. He has regained his position, only with new animals: griffin, hog, and tortoise. Crowley stares, spellbound.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers in awe.

All the eyes blink and one pair focuses on him. These crinkle in a tired smile. In a flash, the smile is gone and the griffin, military leader, barks out, “Inside! Someone’s coming!”

Crowley returns his vision only to this plane of reality and grabs Anathema’s arm. She stumbles as he yanks her forward and inside the door to the nunnery and/or conference and management training center. Crowley slams it shut and stands between it and the outside world. In front of him, Aziraphale’s sword swings through reality and Crowley feels its heat burst through the air.

“You should get inside, my dear,” Aziraphale argues.

Crowley can make out the edges of his wings glistening.

“I’m not the one who made the agreement to protect her,” Crowley snaps. “I’ll be the doorman. You go keep tabs on your liege.”

Aziraphale might roll his eyes, but Crowley is completely focused beyond him. A red Royal Mail van pulls up and a dark-haired man wearing a Royal Mail branded mask opens the driver’s door. He either does not see them or is intentionally ignoring them. He grabs the sliding door handle and, for a split second, Crowley wonders if they’ll be signing for the Four Horsemen’s tools once more. Instead, Dog bursts out of the van at a run. Crowley watches the former Hellhound race by.

“Crowley!” Adam shouts and redirects his attention.

“Hey, hellspawn,” Crowley greets as he walks toward the vehicle.

"Where are your masks?" Adam asks, pointedly. 

  
Crowley snaps and hands Aziraphale a disposable, paper mask. He slides an identical one over his nose and mouth. Adam seems pleased and waves at the others in the van. The Them seem more respectable with their assorted guardians. The adults are a mix of parents, grandparents, and neighbors. They're all wearing some form of face covering, but this does not high their anxiety at seeing Crowley. They consider him anxiously. His attempt of a smile is all grimace, which seems to relax most of them: there is nothing to be happy about survival. A little girl who looks vaguely like Pepper slides out of the van holding a pillow and a stuffed rabbit. As she joins her mother, Crowley notes that the birthmark on her wrist looks surprisingly like a pair of cherries on a joined stem.

“Welcome, everyone,” Aziraphale greets.

The adults nod in response. Aziraphale looks toward the building and Crowley feels a pulse of powerful magic. Suddenly, lights flicker on it the building. The demon raises an eyebrow at the angel.

“That’s bold, angel,” he states.

Aziraphale twists his fingers together over his belly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my dear. The generator just needed time to warm up, no doubt.”

Crowley snorts. “And to materialize, no doubt,” he mocks.

The humans all seem to relax with the presence of light. The angel seems pleased when he sees their reactions. The adults grab their bags and boxes of supplies and head inside. The children follow, but the Them drag their feet waiting for their leader. Said leader’s father looks nervous and tries to herd them all inside without needing a second trip out to the van.

“Adam,” Arthur Young calls, “bring that bedding inside, son!”

Obediently, Adam slings a reusable shopping bag over his arm and wrestles another free of the van. When he does, his shirt pulls away from his neck and Crowley sees the new birthmark. He leaps forward and tugs Adam’s shirt completely aside.

“What in the fuck—“ he begins.

Aziraphale sputters, “My dear, really—“ but his words drop away too when he sees what Crowley has.

On Adam’s neck is the Tetragrammaton in the shape of a pineapple. Like some Millennial’s monogram, YHWH is clearly on his skin. Crowley feels the pulse of holy power and yanks his hand back before it burns on the letters.

“Weird, right?” Adam asks. “Everybody’s got one now—kids I mean.”

“They just popped up a little while ago,” Brian says as he nods emphatically.

He pulls up his shirt up to show off his navel. Directly below it is a small birthmark that resembles the cross-section of some sort of citrus fruit.

“They’re all fruit?” Crowley clarifies.

“‘Sfar as we can tell,” Adam replies. “Wensleydale’s got a bunch of grapes on his foot and Pepper’s got a kiwi slice right here.” He points to the outside of his arm, above the elbow.

Aziraphale continues to stare at Adam’s neck. “The Almighty put Her name on the Anti-Christ.”

Adam scoffs bravely, “Former Anti-Christ.”

The boy’s eyes show just how much of that attitude is faux-bravado. Brian pats him on the shoulder, then grabs the last of the luggage from the van. He slides the door shut as Adam hefts the bags into his arms again.

“It’s highly irregular, is all,” Aziraphale continues thoughtfully. “Would you mind terribly?” He asks as he reaches out his fingers for the birthmark.

Adam shrugs and Aziraphale reaches for the boy’s neck slowly. “Oh yes, it’s definitely holy,” he murmurs as he draws closer. His fingers touch Her name reverently. “Oh my,” he whispers.

“What is it?” Brian worries.

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face. It’s morphed from confusion to excitement to adoration, and now, finally, distress.

“Adam,” he begins as the angel withdraws his hand, “how did you get the van to start?”

Adam grins at Crowley. “Like we talked about. I just _pushed_. I got them all here and got Brian’s dad to drive us!”

Brian beams. “My dad used to deliver the post on a bicycle, but he got the van and now mum says he’s putting on weight so she won’t buy custard creams anymore.”

Crowley nearly chuckles at Aziraphale’s visible frustration. While the demon has always loved kids and their creative ability to veer off-topic, the angel is always annoyed. Warlock’s meandering tales used to irritate him endlessly. Without responding to Brian’s digression, Aziraphale narrows his eyes at Adam.

“‘Pushed’ you say?” Aziraphale is clearly testing a theory when he says, “I’d like you to ‘push’, as you say, and make something happen.”

Adam shifts the luggage. “Like what?”

Aziraphale casts around and finally settles on the blanket poking out of the Sainsbury’s bag in Adam’s arms. He points to it.

“I’d like you to change its color.”

Adam considers this. Crowley interrupts, “No, angel, it’s not the same. I had him start cars, not alter reality.”

Aziraphale hums. “Very well. Could you, perhaps, lock the doors on the van with a ‘push’?”

Adam looks to Crowley for reassurance. The demon flicks his fingers at the boy in a “go on” sort of manner. Locking the van will require significantly less power than coaxing the under-bonnet systems to work. This should be a breeze. Adam closes his eyes tightly. Aziraphale waits. Crowley listens for the lock. Brian hops from one foot to the other.

“Nothings happening,” the boy comments, looking at Adam in confusion. “I thought you could do it?”

Adam grunts frustratedly. “I could. I did earlier! Why won’t it work?” His eyes fly open and land on Crowley’s face. “I’m still me—still made in Hell. Why won’t it work?”

Crowley touches his sunglasses and lets Aziraphale field this question. “It’s your home team, angel. You explain.”

“I believe,” the angel begins slowly, “that you have been touched by God Herself. She has written Her name on your skin. In doing so, She has removed Hell’s power over you. I think, essentially, She’s marked you as human and nothing more.”

Adam stares and Crowley worries he’s about to cry. The demon forces his way into the conversation, “Your birthmark feels holy; it burns me. And, honestly, hellspawn, I don’t feel any other power off of you—not even like earlier today. I think Aziraphale is right.”

Brian pats Adam on the shoulder consolingly. Before he can offer any response though, Arthur Young yells from the open door to Tadfield Manor.

“Boys! Get in here! The world is literally ending—“

Mr. Young continues some age-old tirade that every parent at some point gives to every child about responsibility. He lays thick exaggeration on his speech as the boys crunch across the pebbled parking area. Adam and Brian roll their eyes and huff in the traditional way that every child suffering through this speech does.

Crowley tunes the recital to background noise and watches a cluster of stars burn out instead. The sky has taken on a slight red hue. It reminds him of the Great Fire of London. The demon looks in the Eastern direction and wonders what’s burning. He tugs off his face mask and stuffs it into his pocket.

Beside him, Aziraphale sighs and folds his own delicately. “It’s not my team any longer, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Crowley pulls down his sunglasses and studies Aziraphale. “You sure about that?”

Aziraphale tucks the folded mask into his pocket, then hugs himself. Pensively, the angel turns his face up to the crimson-hued clouds. “I am, but I don't believe you're completely convinced.”

“You have a bad habit of throwing my nature in my face when the chips are down,” Crowley says, unable to keep the venom from his tone. “It usually precedes you denying me.”

Aziraphale steps back as if struck. Crowley sighs and he sags. The vitriol seeps out of him.

“Forget it, angel,” he finally says, tired. “Let’s get inside.”

Crowley slides his sunglasses back into place on his nose and takes an uneasy step toward the Manor. Aziraphale hesitates, but his next action makes Crowley falter. He hears Aziraphale’s wings emerge with a swish of feathers. One wingtip brushes across Crowley’s cheek.

“My heart’s darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “I have wronged you too many times.”

Crowley closes his eyes.

“Today, I said… I said things that I would have when I was trying to obey Heaven even when I knew it was wrong,” Aziraphale says.

His wings rustle. Crowley opens his eyes as he hears the angel step closer. He turns slowly and into the circle of those wings.

“Forgive me, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, as he reaches up and removes Crowley’s sunglasses. They disappear with a whisper into his coat pocket. “Please, I love that you ask questions. This is what makes you singular, not a devil, dearest.”

A pair of dying stars streak across the sky behind the higher pair of Aziraphale’s wings, the ones stretched toward the heavens. Their light reflects on the white opalescent feathers. Crowley steps forward again and rests his forehead against the angel’s. Aziraphale tightens his wings around them both. Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hands and twines their fingers together.

“Angel,” he whispers. Crowley should say more, he knows that. Instead, he leans away and kisses Aziraphale’s forehead. “You’re daft.”

Aziraphale raises their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Crowley’s knuckles on each hand. It’s slow and measured. Then the angel freezes. The hair on the back of Crowley’s neck rises and adrenaline surges in his veins.

“Aziraphale, what is it?” he asks, trying to peek over the white wall of feathers that protect him.

“The birthmarks,” the angel says, with the dawn of realization, “are _blemishes_. She placed _imperfections_ on all the children!”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale. They’re both clever, that has never been disputed. Crowley’s expertise is proposing solutions to complex issues, like human’s inability to discern good from evil. Aziraphale’s intellect, however, begins with his love for the written word and uses it to evaluates issues. He finds patterns. He forms judgments. He has standards.

“The Christ child,” Aziraphale says, his words accelerating as he speaks, “is a sacrifice.”

Crowley’s eyes widen as he comprehends what his angel is driving at. “Imperfect. She made them imperfect.”

“Any sacrifice with a defect is an ‘abomination’ to Her! She told Moses—“

Crowley nearly weeps, “They can’t sacrifice a child. There will be no second Christ.”

Aziraphale drops one of Crowley’s hands to cup his chin, “Precisely, my darling. She’s taken the pawns off the board.”


	22. EARTH, THE CHATTERING ORDER OF ST. BERYL/TADFIELD MANOR CONFERENCE AND MANAGEMENT TRAINING CENTER, 10 HOURS LEFT, MARY HODGES

Sister Mary Loquacious was born Mary Clarissa Hodges, the second daughter of devout Satanists. That is to say actual Satan worshipers, not the Atheists with political aspirations and eyes for human rights and religious tolerance. (Mary’s parents were very fond of those types too, of course.) They attended rituals in London regularly. There, Mary learned her Sunday School lessons from a stern nun, Sister Mary Ellen Confabulate. On one particularly unique Sunday, however, her teacher introduced her class to a special guest.

“This, children, is Master Crowley. He is a demon in service of our Lord,” she cooed.

Master Crowley looked nothing like the horned demons depicted in the stained glass around them. Rather he looked like a nice man who’d help you tie your shoe should it come unlaced, Mary thought. He also wore sunglasses inside, like a celebrity from those magazines near the till at the 9-to-9 shop.

“Are you going to need a sacrifice, Master Crowley?” Sister Mary Ellen asked.

His lips twisted into a strange configuration, “Eh, nah, no. Not much on sacrifices me. Too much clean up afterward and all.”

Before Sister Mary Ellen could investigate into Master Crowley’s mission, he launched into the story of St. Beryl.

“Beryl was a feisty one,” Master Crowley told the children. “She didn’t much care for the physicians at the time—they were into bleeding and leeches. Leeches are nasty things. Ya get ‘em on your arse once and they’re stuck on there until you can pry ‘em off or they’ve eaten their fill. Like blood-sucking slugs, only nastier. Anywho, Beryl goes to this physician who thinks he can take a pelvic saw to a woman in labor and make things go easier. Beryl hits him over the head with a solid iron pot and then delivered the baby herself.”

The children giggled and Mary respected St. Beryl from that time on. Mind you, she never intended to become one of Beryl’s name-bearing midwives. In fact, the only reason that she took orders was for scholarship opportunities. (Cambridge’s fees weren’t as high as university in America, but she had no interest in acquiring student debts.) She didn’t mind the birthing bit. Babies were tiny and cute. The new mums were tired and easy to talk to. Besides, a Satanic birthing hospital meant that demons dropped in here and there. If nothing else, that was unique. (Master Crowley was the only one who didn’t stink, but Mary would never tell the others that. He smelled like wood smoke and Tom Ford cologne. The others, especially Duke Hastur, smelled like cow shit.)

Sister Mary had seen the Nunnery in its height of business, to its crowning glory of switching the Anti-Christ (she’d even held the Anti-Christ! Her! Sister Mary Loquacious! The Prince of Darkness himself!), and through its downfall. 2007 brought the Great Recession, but Mary leaned on her Bachelor's Degree in Business, and Tadfield Manor was reinvented.

Of course, now that things are going so well, the world decides to end. Mary sighs and herds the refugees into the wing of the Manor where corporate nobodies are forced to bed down during training retreats. She has no idea how the lights came back on in the building, but she’s already said a quick thank you to Down Below and Up Above, just in case. Tadfield Manor might be her home, but after hosting literal demons (and figurative, corporate ones), Mary finds it creepy in the dark.

A group of mask-wearing children troop past her for a room with bunk beds and Mary listens to them.

“I will trade you my Captain Marvel annual for the top bunk!” one wheedles.

“Nah, you’ve got chocolate on the pages,” another one says.

“I’ll let Dog sleep with you,” another boy calls.

“Adam!” a girl’s voice pipes, “Dog can’t sleep up that high. He might fall out!”

Mary grimaces under her kitten-patterned mask. She liked babies, but tweens are obnoxious. As she scoots past the room, she spots a pregnant woman lingering in a bedroom doorway.

“How far along are you?” she finally asks, gearing up for a long chatter about birthing expectations.

The woman shrugs and her eyes water. “An angel forced this on me today. I wasn’t pregnant, now I am.”

Mary blinks, her many words lost for a moment. She knows people see her as foolish, and she can admit that several times in her life her lack of social skills and common sense has driven her in embarrassing directions. This though, this she understands.

“An angel or a fallen angel?” she asks in what she hopes is a cryptic fashion.

“Archangel, I think. Gabriel. Aziraphale and Crowley took him out, but it was too late,” she says heavily.

“You know Master Crowley?” Mary yelps.

The woman stares at her as if she’s reading her. “He was outside last I saw him,” she admits.

Mary gives a quick wiggle of her fingers as she departs and hurries back to the main entrance. Master Crowley and his blond associate from earlier that year hunch together by the door. His eyebrows raise over his sunglasses when he sees her.

“You! Basket nun!” he calls, sarcastically. “Did you check him for a wee tail again?”

Mary considers this question carefully. She runs back all the conversations she’s had with the demon in the last fifteen years and remembers a dark night and a picnic hamper. Then she thinks about a boy named Adam in the bunk room.

“Oh my!” she giggles. “ _Him_? He’s here?”

The blond one huffs. “Really, my dear. He’s nothing but a little boy now. Sealed by the Lord Above Herself. He’s one hundred percent human.”

Master Crowley shrugs, “Or She’s stopped his ability to use those powers. Might still be a little… magic, if you know what I mean.”

There’s a moment of silence and Mary finds her corporate voice. She clears her throat.

“I will have to ask you, gentlemen, to follow our policy of mask-wearing.”

Both obediently pull standard paper masks from thin air and don them. Mary tries not to gape. The late Reverent Mother said it made her look like a carp.

“I don’t think they can spread germs, so don’t be too worried,” the pregnant woman says as she shuffles up behind Mary and rubs her lower back. “OK, so we’re here. What’s the next step in the plan?”

Mary considers her, then turns the same scrutiny to the demon and his associate. Master Crowley’s blond friend takes a breath to answer her. Before anything can be said, however, lightning strikes in the parking lot and the glass doors shatter. They all step or jump back in alarm. A square-jawed man with two enormous wings stalks from the center of the lightning toward them. One arm is in a sling, but he’s clearly still dangerous.

“Aziraphale!” he shouts at the blond man.

Aziraphale cracks his neck and draws a sword from thin air. Master Crowley sucks in air over his teeth in a hiss and shakes his shoulders to loosen them.

The angel in the parking lot shouts, “Hand over the virgin—“

The pregnant woman bristles, “I am so not a virgin, you prick!”

The angel falters and shifts the arm that hangs in the sling. “What-the-fuck-ever.”

And he snaps his fingers. At first, Mary doesn’t understand, then the pregnant woman wails and collapses to the floor in a puddle of her own fluids. The nun feels her blood run cold. Did this angel just end a pregnancy? Master Crowley rushes to her side, ignoring the stains seeping into the knees of his trousers.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale roars.

Master Crowley helps the woman to sit back and he yanks her skirt up over her waist. Mary feels like she’s frozen watching all this happen around her. She’s terrified—an angel in a Satanic nunnery, even a defunct one, cannot be good.

Also, the demon beside her is inspecting under the pregnant woman’s skirt and cursing up a storm. “Holy shit shit shit shit shit.”

Mary shakes herself. No doubt the man has no idea what he’s looking at. Before she can react, however, Master Crowley asks, disbelievingly, “ _Where_ is her cervix?”

Anathema screams in pain and tries to brace her feet on the tile floor. Mary rounds on the angel in the doorway.

“What did you do?” the former nun yells.

“I need that baby,” the angel barely glances at her but instead replies to the sword-wielding Aziraphale.

“You can piss off,” Anathema wails, trying to spit out her words over her tears.

Master Crowley pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and drops down to the floor for a closer look.

“Shit, it’s like you’re fully dilated, but the baby hasn’t dropped,” Master Crowley looks white as a sheet, but Mary is fairly sure he’s also right. This is trouble with a capital T.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yells. “Do something!”

And Mary watches Crowley whirl around, nearly panicked. He looks from the two angels at the door, to the broken pile of glass, to the puddle of blood and Amniotic fluids, then to the screaming woman on the floor.

“I have an idea,” he whispers and raises his hand as if ready to snap. “I’m just not sure anyone’s going to like it.”

And he snaps his long fingers.


	23. EARTH, THE CHATTERING ORDER OF ST. BERYL/TADFIELD MANOR CONFERENCE AND MANAGEMENT TRAINING CENTER, 10 HOURS LEFT, CROWLEY

The world is frozen. Crowley turns a slow, panicked circle and takes in the chaos. The tableau before him displays Aziraphale with his flaming sword facing off with his former boss. Crowley’s stomach lurches. After all the recent vomiting, this does not bode well.

Sometimes, he suspects that he is a terrible demon. He should be delighting. There’s gross destruction of property, a woman bleeding out, another pair of beings ready to battle in true wrath, and everyone else around just freaking the fuck out. He comfortably falls into the last category, which is likely, he suspects, poor behavior for a demon at the very end of the world.

To work then.

He slowly faces Anathema and considers the logistics of what he’s about to do. Usually, holding time is a complete drain on his magic. However, he suddenly finds himself far more powerful than he’s ever been before. It’s likely he can hold the moment and complete the miracles he needs to do. If he can’t, well, he likely won’t be alive much longer, so it’ll be all right.

Crowley closes his eyes and reaches into the ether where the very power of the universe’s firmament exists. In theory, he understands what he needs to do. He tugs some starstuff free and turns it over his fingers. He’s built galaxies. He’s mended Aziraphale’s wounds. He has never taken that same composite and used it on a human. Aziraphale is fairly certain it would kill them.

“She _will_ die if I do nothing,” Crowley whispers to himself then kneels once more beside Anathema.

The female human corporation flexes in ways that the male form does not. The cervix, for one, expands and contracts depending on a cycle known only to the body. Gabriel did not expand it as it was designed for infant delivery; he removed it completely. The blood loss is immediately dangerous to mother and child—not that the Archangel cares. Hesitantly, Crowley shifts the ethereal power in his hands and reaches into Anathema’s aura. He feels the fizz of negative energy like a supercharge. It’s like caffeine and it’s making him jumpy.

“Here we go,” he whispers and begins to sew the power into her physical self.

Crowley warps the DNA strands, coaxing them to move in hyper speed to mend the wounds inside her. It’s hard work and his eyes burn with the intensity of his stare. Slowly, Anathema’s body accepts his doctoring. It mends, millimeter by millimeter. He prods at the dark spots of her aura where trauma and panic have darkened it. Then he sits back.

“Anathema, I’m about to do something that I need your permission for… but if I stop and ask for it, we’re probably all dead.” His eyes roll Heavenward. “I know I’m unforgivable,” he whispers, “but please, Mother, let him forgive me for this.”

He is not addressing Gabriel, even as he stands and strides toward him. Crowley chances a glance at Aziraphale’s frozen corporation. There are deep worry lines etches in his forehead and his knuckles are white around the handle of his sword.

“Please, angel, forgive me.”

Then Crowley turns his attention to Gabriel. First, bring all the systems online. The Archangel is running around without most of his inner workings in stasis. Heart, lungs, circulatory systems—now functioning. Next, Crowley leans on his identity as a Maker. He crafted stars. Rearranging a human corporation is nothing. He makes some muscular adjustments and then takes a shaky sigh.

Anathema’s womb with the new Christ child slides from her body into Gabriel’s between one breath and another. Crowley moves quickly to tie the blood vessels and touches the infant’s aura.

“Be strong, little one,” he blesses and lets the whisper carry a miracle that would make Aziraphale proud.

Then he steps back to Anathema and begins to heal her. “Sorry, kid,” he mutters. “I’m a big fan of free will for you humans, but sometimes, needs must. Now, lemme plug some holes.”

He moves quickly; he pulls on the extra power he already wove into her body. This time her injuries burn through it quickly. Crowley sweats. Even frozen, he nearly wasn’t fast enough.

With another snap, the floor and his trousers are clean of her fluids. The last thing, he decides, is to move to Aziraphale’s side and pull him backward. He would be very upset if he stabbed an infant, Crowley knows.

Crowley presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “Here we go,” he whispers.

He snaps.

  
Time restarts.


	24. EARTH, THE CHATTERING ORDER OF ST. BERYL/TADFIELD MANOR CONFERENCE AND MANAGEMENT TRAINING CENTER, 10 HOURS LEFT, AZIRAPHALE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> I hope you're safe and well. So many places are going back into lockdown and I hope, if you're where that is occurring, that you stay safe. As we continue in this insane holiday season, please look after yourselves. You are so important and so special--even if you're feeling down. Please reach out to someone you love. You are so worth it. 
> 
> Stay safe! xoxox  
> B

EARTH, THE CHATTERING ORDER OF ST. BERYL/TADFIELD MANOR CONFERENCE AND MANAGEMENT TRAINING CENTER, 10 HOURS LEFT, AZIRAPHALE

In 1967, Aziraphale told Crowley that he went “too fast”. It had been a lie, of course. Aziraphale was simply terrified of Crowley’s punishment from Hell. He’d known his own punishment would have been dire. He’d accepted that. Comprehended and wrestled the idea in the early hours before dawn over the centuries.

Hell was the unknown. What would Crowley face for having the ability to love? For being “nice”? So he phrased his discomfort in terms of speed—“maybe in another three hundred decades, my love” and Crowley heard his unspoken words.

Now, however, things are moving too fast for the angel. He dissociated the moment Crowley snapped time back and the infant and womb had separated from Anathema. His feudal contract had indeed been poorly worded, as Crowley had worried. The infant and mother were in danger and his inability to help slapped his psyche. Unfortunately, this is not the time for Aziraphale to be in his own head and separate from reality.

His heart beats in strange flickers and he’s detached from the reality before him. Somehow they’re in a birthing room. In one bed, to his left, Crowley weaves his magic over Anathema’s unconscious corporation. He pauses only to glance up at her blood pressure monitor occasionally. It’s still too low—she’s bleeding internally. This is a still image, a photograph of Crowley’s calm and smooth movements.

If Aziraphale thinks about it, he can hear sounds: beeps and pneumatic pulses. He has to concentrate on it though and he doesn’t want to. This is mainly because Gabriel, who is clearly and visibly pregnant, is in the bed to the right and is groaning and bitching with pain. A former Satanic nun in a screen-printed kitten mask tuts at him.

“Master Crowley says you need to put in some effort,” she reminds him.

“I refuse!” Gabriel pauses to groan and clench down. “I will not… ughhhhhh, I will not sully my Celestial form and defiling it with fluids!”

Absently, Aziraphale is amused. No doubt that Crowley said Gabriel needed to “make an Effort”, but no matter. Words make no difference, overall. The world is ending. Time slips away from him as the sounds of the room dampen again. Later, and the amount of time does not seem to matter, he finds himself standing before a counter with a sink and assorted medical supplies. He blinks slowly at the cabinet. Aziraphale knows something has dramatically changed. For one, Crowley stands beside him, palming the nape of his neck.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stares in reply.

Somehow, in the past hour or so Gabriel has become pregnant. Anathema is now completely without child. His contract of protection has broken. Behind them, Gabriel seems close to having an asthmatic fit.

“You fucking fuck!” Gabriel screams, enraged.

“‘M’not sorry, Fuck Feathers,” Crowley snaps, his face turned to the angel in the bed. He’s sharp like a serpent ready to strike. “And you better keep remembering to breathe, otherwise your new sacrifice will suffocate in there.”

Aziraphale shifts his stance, allowing Crowley to better hold him. Crowley automatically wraps his arms around him and he hides his face in the demon’s chest. Crowley is a sea wall against the storm that pounds at Aziraphale’s senses. Noise and panic recede for a moment, but only a split second because it returns with the alarms from Gabriel’s tocodynamometer. The fetal monitor announces that his contractions are getting closer together. The nun bustles about and Gabriel curses and Anathema’s pulse oxygen level registers and Crowley shifts and suddenly all the noise and movement is too much.

“I need air,” Aziraphale gasps and lurches from Crowley’s hold.

He escapes, but how exactly remains a blur. Aziraphale finds himself in the entrance. The lobby is still intact, although broken glass glitters around it. His sword, still flaming, lies on the linoleum. Aziraphale lifts it up and extinguishes its fire. Before he can manifest a scabbard, he hears Crowley enter behind him. The demon does not approach, instead, he respects Aziraphale’s need for space. The angel hears Crowley scuff the heel of his boot in the glass shards.

From the pitch of his voice, Crowley has turned incrementally away from him. “I owe Anathema a new womb. I’m not sure the witch is going to want that one back; it’s got self-righteous arsehole on it now.”

His attempt at levity fails. Outside, stars fall in inhospitable darkness.

“You gave her a hysterectomy?” Aziraphale clarifies, feeling distant from his own tongue.“And Gabriel is carrying the Christ child?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Crowley deadpans, but in such a way that he knows this joke is going to flop too.

“Do you think Gabriel is going to—“

“What? Miracle himself a cunt? Who knows with Fuck Feathers. He always wants things, but never wants them to inconvenience him. Just look at the way he’s treated you all this time.” Crowley replies, indelicately. “I didn’t borrow Anathema’s. She’ll still need those bits. Gabriel can figure it out himself.”

Aziraphale nods, even if Crowley cannot see him. The concept of borrowing someone’s genitalia is mildly amusing and he huffs. He shakes his head slowly, a smile breaking over his face and shaking the fog that encapsulates him. Beyond the lit foyer where they stand is the grim darkness of the end of the world. It should be about dusk, but the darkness that has lingered all day seems no different. A cat, strangely white in the shadows, runs, tail down in fear, across the paintball field. It freezes and the lights illuminate its eyes like reflectors. Then, like a hunted beast, it ducks under the shell of some paintball-splattered vehicle and hides. Aziraphale fidgets with the hem of his waistcoat. The velvet and satin ground him.

Crowley grunts then snaps his fingers. The shards of glass fly up and reform into tall windows. Without another word, he returns to the birthing room. Aziraphale remains there, feeling humanity’s worry and pain boil inside him. He’d told Anathema that if was like eating hot coals and it was an apt description at the time. Things have only deteriorated since then. It’s more like something is clawing at his insides now. He shivers and follows Crowley.

Once the swinging door opens, Aziraphale considers letting it fall shut again. Gabriel looks ready to spit nails. His one arm is still in a sling, which seems incongruous with his emotion somehow. Aziraphale has never seen his purple eyes lit with hatred like this before. His anger on the Tadfield Airbase was nothing compared to the emotions ricocheting off his face now. Crowley ignores all this and inspects Anathema’s vitals.

“I need a hand,” Mary, the former nun, says as she pulls out the stir-ups to Gabriel’s hospital bed.

Crowley saunters over, hands shoved in pockets and sunglasses reflecting the light. He bends down and hums.

“Still no exit point, huh, Fuck Feathers?”

At this, Gabriel leans forward threateningly and growls, “Deliver this child, now, demon, or I will smite you—“

Crowley straightens up again and rocks back onto his heels. “Nope.”

Gabriel roars, then contorts with a contraction. His arm dangles uselessly in his sling.

“You wanted a sacrifice,” Crowley says, “so you’re getting one. You want it out? Deliver it.”

There is a twinkle of power, something that Aziraphale associates with the miracled arrival of occult and ethereal powers. He spins around, ready to heft his sword. Beelzebub pushes the door to the birthing room pushed open. They’re shadowed by a one-handed Dagon. Suddenly, Aziraphale is moving with the natural flow of time. He draws his sword up and jumps between Crowley and the other demons.

“Begone!” he shouts.

Dagon glares at him and Beelzebub leans around him.

“I’d be damned,” they buzz.

“Already are,” Dagon deadpans, then follows Beelzebub’s line of sight. She breaks down into giggles.

“We saw the receipt of your miracles,” Beelzebub drones at Crowley, clearly ignoring Aziraphale, “and thought it might be a typo. Apparently not.”

Gabriel sags back on the bed and growls, “Get out of here you Hellish harpies. Back-stabbers!”

Aziraphale takes a slow step backward into Crowley. He reaches behind him and palms the demon’s hip to guide him away from the door. A few steps more and Crowley is crowded by Anathema’s bed with Aziraphale guarding them both. Mary tries not to cower by the cabinet on the other side of the room.

Meanwhile, Dagon’s laughter has turned to a wheezee. She braces herself on her knees and gasps in between giggles.

Beelzebub glares at Gabriel. “Harpies?” they buzz.

Another contraction hits the archangel and he clenches down with a moan.

Beelzebub glances from this to Crowley, “Well done, you traitorous fucking snake.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” Crowley snaps. “Trying to keep the world from ending again.”

Dagon rolls her eyes, then straightens up, and trudges over to Gabriel’s bed. She grabs the edge of his hospital gown and yanks it up. No Effort exists between his legs. Gabriel struggles around his swollen belly and injured arm to sit up. He tugs the hem of his gown from her grasp and tucks it back down.

“Do offspring burst through angel corporations like parasites?” she asks with dark amusement.

“This is not the Lord’s Plan!” Gabriel growls as he falls back onto the pillows.

“Yeah, about that,” Crowley says with that questioning lilt he only uses when tempting, “why do you need a second Christ anyhow? What’d you do with the last one?”

Before Gabriel can answer, Crowley plows on, “Besides that, why is Hell following the damned ‘Plan’? Herself fucked off as far as anyone can tell and you’re all still following Her blessed orders? _After_ She chucked us out of Heaven? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

Gabriel, Dagon, and Beelzebub all stare at Crowley over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“But it is written,” Beelzebub begins but lets their words die away. Suddenly, they face Gabriel, “Why _do_ you need another sacrificial child? She’s not going to take your sacrifice anyway… You said so yourself, She’s gone.”

And with those words, Aziraphale’s brain comes back fully online. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if the Lord is unavailable and uninterested in ending the world,” he comments to Crowley, but clearly directing his words to the larger room, “how the baby came into being? No Holy Spirit around to, ahem, sire this child.”

Crowley croaks a sound of surprise from behind him. He leans around Aziraphale to Gabriel’s bed, “Fuck Feathers! You naughty boy! Nephilim are _so_ 5000 BCE!”

Gabriel starts to comment back, based on his expression but howls in pain instead. According to the fetal monitor, the contractions are increasing in frequency and intensity.

“Gabriel, you must manifest a birth canal,” Aziraphale says, just short of an order.

“Is the kid even a _little_ human, eh, Fuck Feathers?” Crowley asks, leaning on Anathema’s bed. “Or is it all occult power and miracle?”

“Stop calling me that,” Gabriel pants, and magic hums in the air.

Dagon lifts his hospital gown and looks down. “Oh,” she recoils, “why does it look like that?”

Crowley slides out of Aziraphale’s grasp and the angel nearly pulls him back. “He’s in labor, my lord,” the demon says to the Prince.

Dagon is repulsed and drifts away as Crowley steps into her place. “Right, ok, feet in the stir-ups, Fuck Feathers. Which of you wants to be his coach?” Crowley asks the Princes.

  
They both stare. Then, Beelzebub rockets forward and, once past Crowley, manifests a dagger. It’s dark metal and pulses with evil. Aziraphale yells and his sword ignites anew. Beelzebub drives the dagger down into Gabriel’s stomach above the tocodynamometer’s leads. The angel screams and writhes.

In terror, Crowley stumbles backward from Beelzebub. Aziraphale grabs his arm and tugs him toward Anathema’s bed. Mary slides down the cabinet and balls up on herself. She cowers with her arms over her face. Tears stripe her face.

Meanwhile, Gabriel’s corporation seizes. He convulses off the bed, with his back bowing off the mattress. He kicks at the stir-ups and draws golden blood from one bare shin. Beelzebub studies his movements with a detached interest before plucking the dagger free of Gabriel’s corporation. They measure downward with their eyes, this time closer to his pelvis, and stab down again.

Aziraphale nearly yells, but Crowley’s hand circles the angel’s wrist. Now he is the one to drag Aziraphale backward. As he does, Aziraphale sees that Dagon is advancing on them.

Behind her, black poison bleeds into Gabriel’s veins. It travels up across his throat and face. His lips turn blue. His hands blacken and crumble away like ash. His eyes widen and life disappears from his purple eyes. The fetal monitor is silent. Clearly, the same demonic magic has silenced the second Christ.

With a sigh, Gabriel’s body dissolves into dust. He is gone. Beelzebub grins in pleasure then snags the dagger from the gurney. They look up in their direction. The Prince’s smile turns predatory. Crowley snaps and Anathema, hospital bed and all, disappear. Mary cries out, then rolls up onto her feet and runs for the door to the hall.

Beelzebub swings their blade wide. Mary’s eyes widen in terror as the dagger slices between her ribs. Unlike an angelic corporation, the evil poison stops the human’s heart instantly. Mary hits the floor dead. Beelzebub kicks at her corpse to roll her over. They lean down and yank the dagger free.

“Pfft, mortals,” they grouse and follow Dagon.

Aziraphale hears Crowley gag as if he’s trying to avoid being sick. The angel can feel Crowley’s reaction to Gabriel’s panic and pain. Unlike the birthing contractions, his murder—his destruction—lingers like a bad smell. It nearly unravels Aziraphale. Then Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s wrist and he transfers power into the angel. Aziraphale sighs in relief then plants his feet and imagines an extra sheen of holiness to the fire that licks up his blade. He will not go down without a fight.

They’re coming for him and Crowley.

They’re coming for the humans in this building.

They’re coming for every mortal in existence.

They’re coming for _Earth_.

He is the protector of Earth and he will do his best to honor that title.

At that moment, beyond the building’s walls, a shofar sounds. It’s not Gabriel’s trumpet, but a war horn—the blast that announces a charge. Heaven has clearly discovered Gabriel’s elimination. They’re attacking. Dagon pauses and looks back at Beelzebub.

“Well, I’d say they’re aware of our duplicity,” they admit with little concern.

Dagon shrugs. “As if they were innocent themselves, fucking hypocrites. Bringing out the bloody _Ark_ of all things.”

Beelzebub shrugs and buzzes, “Kill them and meet me on the battlefield.” They toss their dagger to her.

“To the war!” Dagon agrees as Beelzebub sinks into the floor and back to Hell.

Her dagger seems too small compared to Aziraphale’s sword, but he knows better than to underestimate a combatant based on their weapon. He rolls his shoulders and adjusts his grip on his sword. Crowley steps up to his side and manifests a scimitar. It is not a cursed blade, like the dagger in Dagon’s hand.

Dagon does not speak, but charges at Aziraphale. Her blade has already killed one angel. It’s hungry for more blood and it pulses forward with her strike. But Aziraphale’s blade is holy—it was given to him by the Lord Herself. When it meets the cursed blade, it burns brighter and hotter. Dagon’s blade melts. As it gives way, Aziraphale pushes forward and his sword cuts through the demon’s smaller knife.

Dagon’s eyes widen and she jumps back. Crowley’s scimitar swings wide and clubs Dagon’s legs out from under her. He draws the blade back toward him, slicing through her trousers and into the skin behind her knees. Black blood pours out onto the tile floor beneath her.

“Smite her, Aziraphale,” Crowley decides.

Aziraphale shakes his sword and the melted demonic blade falls away in two soft pieces. They bubble and smoke from the floor, melting the tile beneath them. As if pleased with itself, fire licks up the edges of his sword. Aziraphale considers the demon at his feet. She holds her hand’s stump to her chest and looks away. She is less than she was, that much is apparent. For a Prince of Hell, she is more like a “garden-variety demon” as Crowley would put it. Although what Crowley could do with such power limitations made him a threat. Even so, Aziraphale lowers his sword, just a hair.

As soon as he does, Dagon surges up toward the angel. Crowley strikes. His blade slices through the air and cuts into Dagon’s arm. She yells and falls back. Aziraphale sighs.

“Crowley, stand back,” he orders.

Crowley tugs his scimitar free. As he steps away, Aziraphale thrusts his sword forward and into Dagon’s chest. It takes more force than he expected. It’s been centuries since he smote a demon. She screams and falls backward away from the blade. Terror floods the room and Crowley flinches with another dry-heave. Dagon’s corporation sucks in at the wound—like water going down a drain, her very body empties into the hole. The whole process only takes moments. She disappears with a pop.

Crowley’s scimitar clatters to the floor and he sags. Aziraphale’s sword extinguishes and he pushes it into the ether. He does not take his eyes from Crowley as he does all this. The demon is practically grey in color, yet he crackles with energy and power. Aziraphale reaches over and delicately removes Crowley’s sunglasses. Dark circles ring under his eyes and panic dances along his irises. Aziraphale considers cataloging the events of this day, but they seem too many to list. Instead, he pockets the glasses so he can cup the demon’s chin and strokes his cheek with his thumb. Aziraphale feels some power transfer to him again and Crowley’s shoulders loosen with the action.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers, hoping that translates in all the ways it should.

Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s touch and his eyes fall closed. They’re still and silent, both too tired and overwhelmed to hold a conversation. The past hours weigh on them like sandbags. Aziraphale reaches around Crowley with the arm that holds his sword and holds him at the waist. Then with a pulse of power, he moves them back to Jasmine Cottage. Crowley’s eyes flick open and he takes in their surroundings. His eyes glow faintly in the dark.

Aziraphale remembers blue wallpaper and holding Crowley in his arms here. He pulls them toward the bed and Crowley follows obediently. The sword goes on the bedside, like a talisman of protection. Crowley sits on the side of the bed and kicks off his boots. Aziraphale removes his coat and waistcoat, setting them neatly in the chair by the bed. The demon snaps, apparently too tired to go about this the human way, and slides into the bed naked. There’s more to that snap, however, as the miracle slides around the room like a warm blanket. Aziraphale looks around them, concentrating with his many eyes.

“How did you do that?” he asks.

Crowley has hung protective wards around the room. They drape like cloth but are nearly invisible. Anyone looking for them would be hard-pressed to find the miracle. Crowley punches the pillow and kicks the duvet off of his legs.

He yawns as he says, “Just imagined it. I toldya, angel, too much bad juju. I feel like a spark plug.”

Aziraphale strips down to his skin and slides under the duvet.

“Did the hospital too,” Crowley offers with a stretch. “Should keep them safe for a while.”

Crowley dozes immediately with one leg dangling off the bed. His body is beyond exhausted and Aziraphale knows he should feel the same, but his brain is too full. It speeds around, looping over problems, and doubling back without solutions. Crowley snorts in his sleep and curls close. Aziraphale sits up and tucks the duvet over him. However, it’s too much and Crowley surges upright, ready to fight.

“Crowley! My darling, it’s all right. Lay back down, it’s all right,” the angel comforts.

He pulls Crowley down into his arms and feels the line of panic that radiates from the demon. He kisses Crowley’s temple in a gesture he hopes will relieve some of the feelings. Instead, it seems that it gives Crowley another idea. He slithers closer and rocks his hips against Aziraphale’s thigh.

Near-death situations have a certain impact on human corporations. Adrenaline abates, but the zing of energy is slow to wane. Aziraphale reaches down and palms at Crowley’s erection. It’s hot and hard, but also drumming with power. More than coursing with blood, he’s pulsating with negative feelings. Aziraphale strokes him in a loose fist and Crowley’s mouth falls open with a keen.

“Need you,” he begs.

Aziraphale’s body responds immediately; he’s aching just with these words.

“Then you shall have me,” he replies with a honeyed tone.

He releases Crowley’s cock and instead grabs the demon under the arms and lifts him. Crowley gives a disbelieving croak as he’s settled astride Aziraphale’s hips. Their erections brush one another and both grunt with pleasure. Aziraphale skims his hands down Crowley’s chest and sides. He feels the fizz of negativity radiate off the demon’s skin. Crowley reaches down and palms both their cocks together, then rocks his hips to provide more friction. Electricity arcs between the tips as he shifts and Aziraphale gasps at the sensation.

“I’m not sure, my darling, that I can fuck you like this,” he admits, disappointed

Crowley chuckles. “Afraid I’ll burn you up, angel?”

“Something like that,” Aziraphale replies, as he clutches Crowley’s hip in one palm and pinches a nipple with the other hand.

Crowley moans, lusty and open like he does when he’s overstimulated and past any ability to come again. Aziraphale freezes.

“Darling? Is this too much?” he asks.

He can feel it too. The sky above them is filling with armies. Combined with the endless eddies of negative emotions, Crowley very well may be past the point of performance. Aziraphale has always been a bit of a bastard though, so he tweaks the nipple he has between his fingers. Crowley mews and thrusts forward, leaving Aziraphale breathless.

“I don’t care, angel,” he begs when he can. “I need you.”

Then Crowley presses his hand into the center of Aziraphale’s chest and power pours out like water from a pitcher. Aziraphale is filled with it, more than topped off, but overflowing. The energy crackles out of him. The lightbulb in the lamp next to the bed explodes. Crowley humps him, letting their erections ruck against one another. Aziraphale is gasping, but reaches down and tangles his fingers with Crowley’s. Together they grip themselves and buck into their joined hold. Energy continues to gush out. The room is bathed in blue electricity. Charged particles skim around the room and Aziraphale feels his halo manifest. He glows and Crowley moans with pleasure.

Unable to contain himself anymore, Aziraphale rolls them over and grabs Crowley’s knee. He pushes it up to the demon’s chest.

“I’m ready,” Crowley moans and it’s true.

Aziraphale pushes into him, his cock slipping past the ring of muscle with barely any resistance. Aziraphale did not feel any miracle, but already he himself is slick and Crowley is prepared.

The flashes of energy brighten, like lightning all around them. With every thrust into Crowley’s body, static sparks between their skin. Aziraphale grunts with the effort, but Crowley is blissed out. Words fall out of his mouth like a liturgy in honor of their lovemaking.

“Angel, angel, angel, just like that,” he begs, then cries out with Aziraphale’s next thrust. “Harder, Aziraphale, harder.”

Aziraphale grips Crowley’s other leg and pushes it up to the demon’s chest to join the first. He’s bent practically in half and still begging for more. Aziraphale tugs Crowley down from the pillows so his back is flat on the mattress and drives forward with as much strength as he can muster. The room flashes in power and Aziraphale can feel his hair standing on end. Crowley thrashes and his red hair illuminates in the bright burst of lightning they produce.

Aziraphale fucks forward, chasing his climax. They’re joined. They’re one. No one can separate them, it repeats in his head like a mantra. All around them energy coruscates and the room blazes with light. The mattress around Crowley’s shoulders begins to smoke and the walls to the house groan. Aziraphale reaches down between Crowley’s bent legs and touches the very tip of his erection. Crowley squeals like a dying animal and comes all over his chest and thighs.

Sparks flare all along Crowley’s walls and tightens down on Aziraphale’s cock. It shocks the orgasm right out of the angel and he is left completely unable to breathe. He thrums deep inside his lover in hot volleys. His vision whites out and he feels himself fall forward.

Aziraphale comes back to himself slowly. Crowley’s legs are wrapped around his hips and he’s kissing the angel’s shoulder. The room is still, but unearthly. Everything in the room is suspended in the air, floating. Occasionally, sparks glitter off the furniture and tchotchkes that decorate the room. Crowley and he too defy gravity and drift through the air a good foot off the levitating bed. Aziraphale curls his arms protectively around Crowley’s back. Electricity arcs from where his hands brush Crowley’s skin.

He kisses the demon passionately. “My darling.”

Crowley licks at his mouth with a sigh and slowly, everything settles back onto the Earth’s gravitational pull. Crowley and he are still together, linked, even as Aziraphale softens. They float down like a leaf falling from a tree onto the singed mattress. The duvet settles over Aziraphale’s back like a blanket of falling snow. Aziraphale slips free of his lover’s body, but neither releases the other from their grip.

It’s quiet, held at this moment, and Aziraphale realizes why. He stretches out his senses and finds the occult and etheral forces above them, true forms unleashed, ready for battle. They are frozen.

“You stopped time again,” he mutters with a kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“Didn’t mean to,” Crowley replies apologetically.

In this pocket between seconds, the negativity recedes and Aziraphale exhales. His body relaxes in a way he didn’t know that he needed. Crowley seems to have expended some of the extra power and his eyes are heavy. Aziraphale cleans them up with a thought and arranges his lover into the bedding the way they like. Crowley chuckles, half asleep already.

When he speaks, his words slur together, “Don’t know if I can hold this.”

Aziraphale is sure that Crowley’s hold on time will slip when he sleeps, but he just strokes his hand over the demon’s lean neck and kisses him. “No matter.”

Then they sleep.

Aziraphale starts awake when the Hellish hordes beat drums and shout with bloodlust. The Heavenly Host trumpet and charge. They meet in the clash of battle in the skies. It’s darker in Anathema’s guest room than before. The unnatural darkness is mixed with nightfall. Crowley shifts next to Aziraphale and sighs.

“They got their war,” he says, heartbroken.

Aziraphale is slow to nod. “We can still…” his voice drifts off.

What can they still do? The pressure of negativity pushes on him again, so the angel rises and dresses. Crowley watches him with uncovered yellow eyes. He snaps and he is wearing a clean black outfit. Aziraphale wants to smile, but it seems too much effort. Any hope he’d had during their coupling is lost now. The darkness has swallowed it whole.

He moves to the window and looks up into the sky. Physical war on the mortal coil is a mixture of sound, sights, and smells. Aziraphale has fought in a number of them and can pull the sense memories forward with a thought. Pikes striking shields. The charged smell of spent gunpowder. Men screaming. Jets screeching overhead. The years and technology might change, but the feelings never change.

This battle is nothing like that. It’s incomprehensible to the human mind and any mortal gazing up with undoubtedly lose their minds. Angelic and demonic forms defy boundaries. They clash, repeal, suspend, charge, and immolate without end. They are eternal and finite. They are large and uncoiled like giant motors and wings and beasts. Aziraphale cannot tell who is winning. He knows that Earth is losing. The end is here. He lifts his sword from the bedside table.

“We can go back to the hospital,” he decides absently and Crowley hums.

In one snap, they’re standing beside Anathema’s hospital bed and monitors. Aziraphale wonders when Crowley makes it reappear here. She sleeps on, unconscious to a world that is ending around her. In some ways, Aziraphale envies her. He walks to her bedside and rests his sword on the gurney. He lays his hand on her head. A blessing pours out of him and the muscles around her jaw relax. She sighs in her sleep.

Aziraphale does not move his hand, “Remember in the fourteenth century how we’d ease them into the afterlife?”

The Black Death took so much from them. Crowley’s sense of humor dwindled the more people he helped slip away. In the end, Aziraphale did most of it himself. It simply drained Crowley too much. The angel remembers how his miracles would incrementally slow their internal organs’ functions until they slipped into a coma and then eternal sleep. It would be easy to repeat now. He could start here, then move onto those staying in this building.

Crowley’s hand settles over his and laces their fingers together. He tugs Aziraphale’s hand away from Anathema’s head. Aziraphale feels a zip of energy slide across his knuckles at their joined hands.

“I do,” the demon admits. “She will heal though.”

“And wake to find, what? The shell of a world that Heaven and Hell have gutted? Without light or stars or even God Herself?” his voice cracks at the end of his words and he feels Crowley flinch at Her name. “If I called for Her, the way you did, if I used Her name, She still wouldn’t come. She wouldn’t intervene. I don’t think Anathema should be forced to live in that world.”

Crowley pulls him away from the witch’s bedside and wraps him into a hug. He rests their foreheads together. Something explodes outside.

“We are on our own side,” Crowley reminds him, softly. “We are on the side of Free Will and Earth and very good red wine. Chaucer. Xiǎobāo. Debussy. Single malt Scotch. Autobahns. That’s the world we want her to be able to live in. Don’t give up on it now, angel.”

Aziraphale feels his hold on his emotions slipping. Tears leech from his eyes. He leans further into the demon’s arms and lets his eyelids fall closed against his sobs. The negativity rises again like a wave. Crowley jerks away and rushes to the rubbish bin where he vomits. Aziraphale follows him slowly. He touches Crowley’s back. Humanity’s emotions swarm in his belly like angry bees. Aziraphale feels like he’s drowning in humanity’s despair as it sucks at his powers, but Crowley seems to be hyper and ill simultaneously. Crowley reaches over and touches Aziraphale’s ankle. Power spikes through him and refills him miracle allowance. Crowley sighs as if the pain has been lessened.

Just then, the door to the birthing room swings open with a crash. Aziraphale jerks away and his sword finds its way into his grip again. He lowers his defensive position when he sees pajama-clad Adam and his friends. Dog cocks his head in confusion at the weapon. Embarrassed, the angel hides the sword in the ether.

“They’re not following directions! I told them to stop messing with Earth!” Adam exclaims without explanation.

Pepper, however, looks beyond Adam’s focus.

“Anathema?” Pepper asks, alarmed, and runs to the witch’s bedside. “What’s wrong with her? Where’s the baby?”

“The angels took her baby, didn’t they?” Adam asks, with the same strength he once stood up to Satan with.

Aziraphale could explain, but instead, he nods. Adam’s eyes take on the ancient nature they held when he was the Antichrist. Then he blinks and is just a human child again. Brian examines the dust on Gabriel’s bed and then cries out in surprise.

“There’s someone over here!”

Crowley winces and snaps. Mary’s corpse and Gabriel’s ashes vanish.

“Demons,” he admits to the children as if this explains everything.

Wensleydale looks around at the drying blood and then steps away from Crowley. He gulps. Crowley sighs and snaps to retrieve his sunglasses from Aziraphale’s pocket. He slides them back onto his face and crosses his arms over his chest. Meanwhile, Adam takes Anathema’s hand and squints at her. He shakes his head and tries again, this time gritting his teeth as he does so.

“Adam,” Aziraphale reminds as he feels the body’s frustration saturate the room, “you’ve nothing left in terms of power. She’s just healing. Anathema will be all right.”

Adam slumps. “What’s the use? I should have stayed that way. I could have made it better. I could have stopped this.”

Brian and Pepper exchange a glance. Wensleydale pats Adam’s shoulder.

“My gran always says ‘if wishes were horses’. You could have had a lot of horses, but you wouldn’t be happy,” he says wisely. “But you could have had a sleigh for the horses and that would have been cool at Christmas.”

Crowley snorts as the children all comment. The demon then tugs at his hair. “Right, ok, angel. We need a plan.”

The children quiet quickly and all look at the angel. Aziraphale swallows.

“You tend to think of things under duress better than me, my dear,” he admits.

Crowley sucks on his teeth and shoves his hands into his pockets. “All I’ve got is reach out to Azrael again.”

Aziraphale considers this. “To what end? He clearly opened and executed, if you’ll excuse my word choice, the Scroll.”

Crowley considers this. “It’s all I’ve got.”

Aziraphale hums and fidgets. He pulls at his waistcoat and then twines his fingers together into a knot. Pain swells outside the room and Aziraphale swoons. Crowley gags. The children look to one another in concern.

“Are you sick?” Brian asks, adjusting his mask nervously.

“It’s the emotions, my boy,” Aziraphale admits. “I am an angel and all this negativity is… draining. I think the opposite is true of Crowley. He’s… had too much as it were.”

Crowley nods slowly and looks a bit green for his troubles. “Like eating too many sweets then doing wheelies on your bicycle.”

All the children make sympathetic groans. Heavens knows how Crowley would know what that felt like—then again, he did Nanny for longer that Aziraphale could have stayed sane and Warlock did love sugar. Crowley pushes some of the power to Aziraphale again and they both sigh with relief. Aziraphale notes that this is becoming necessary more frequently. It’s not good news. His thoughts change directions.

“Do you think enough of the angels and demons would revolt?” he considers. “Azrael said there were others.”

“Like a war with multiple fronts? Germany did that in World War II,” Wensleydale recites.

Crowley’s grin grows slowly, as it does when he’s concocting a plan. “Exactly like that, kid. Angel, that’s got some merit… especially if we get the humans on our side.”

Aziraphale gasps, “My dear, surely not. Mortals versus immortals. It would be a slaughter.”

Adam stares right at them and Crowley holds the boy’s gaze. “Yes, but Heaven and Hell are idiots. They’re out there fighting with ancient technology. We know that nobody does war as well as humans—their tools of the trade are way more advanced than pointy sticks.”

Aziraphale considers this option. “How in the world do we contact them? What if all the people in charge went with the Scroll? How do we unite them?”

Crowley considers this. “We’ll improvise. First thing, though, we need to contact Azrael.”

“Who is that?” Pepper asks, crossing her arms.

“Egh,” Crowley makes a face with this noise, “the Angel of Death, basically.”

The children begin asking questions immediately. Aziraphale cannot keep track of who asks what.

“What would an Angel of Death do?”

“Does he kill people?”

“Could he check in on my hamster Charlie? He died last spring.”

“Does he have that sharp hook thing?”

“Is there really a light at the end of the tunnel?”

“My mom says sometimes that’s a train and that’s why life is hard.”

“Nah, sometimes it’s just getting through a metaphor.”

The last statement makes Aziraphale pause. He is about to correct them for their completely convoluted statement, but Crowley shakes his head. The corner of his mouth twitches with humor and Aziraphale smiles in reply. It’s short-lived. Even so, he lets their bickering and questioning roll over him. As it does, he expands his Celestial body into the next plane. He reaches out and feels the pain and suffering on the battlefield.

There is panic from those who are discorporated and destroyed. Humans’ panic snuffs out of existence faster than the demons’ or angels’. He feels their wonder and terror, their descent into madness, as they see what no mortal is meant to witness. He wonders if She wanted this to happen like this.

He lets his presence wander. There are little puffs of joy and love. They surprise him and he hones in on these feelings. Humans clinging to each other and sharing bittersweet moments. They expect to die and they’re holding those they love close. Aziraphale focuses on those little pinpricks and tries to strengthen them, but his powers are draining from the overall sadness. With that thought, he withdraws to his physical body.

“Crowley!” he shouts.

The demon starts and takes a hurried step closer.

“The negative energy is draining my power,” he admits and before he can continue, Crowley snaps. Aziraphale feels his supplies refilled. Crowley does not even look dazed. “You are doing that more and more often.”

Crowley gives an indulgent smile. “Yeah, angel, I’m supercharged.”

“And it’s making you sick?” Pepper clarifies.

Crowley nods. “Then all the other demons feel the same way,” Aziraphale theories. “And the angels are draining faster. They don’t have a demon to top them off either.”

Crowley stares from behind his sunglasses. His mouth falls open.

“More than that,” Aziraphale continues, “something changed. I have more power than I’ve ever had access too… I could do larger miracles if I wanted.”

Crowley gives a jerky nod. “Yep, me too.”

“And, come to think of it, did Gabriel or Beelzebub seem… less to you?”

“Oh, angel. You are a genius,” Crowley is beaming.

“They did, didn’t they?” Aziraphale says with growing enthusiasm. “We’re stronger than our supervisors now.”

“How?” Brian asks.

Adam answers, strangely enough, with the same authority he had always had, “My Grandmother did it.”

Crowley gags again, only this time it’s due to the same nausea that Aziraphale has. That statement rings with the holy blessing that only their Lord could give. Aziraphale’s eyes dart down to the pineapple birthmark that now seals Adam’s neck.

“Did She,” Aziraphale stutters, “did She talk to you, Adam?”

Adam considers his answer. “Not in words, but I knew She was the one who did it?”

“That sounds like a question,” Aziraphale continues, the lead in his stomach rolling.

Adam shrugs. “I just knew She did. She doesn’t… well I don’t think She cares if there is a war or not. She just wants to play in Her woods and be left alone.”

Crowley does throw up then. He drops to his knees around the bin and clutches it. The children all look a little queasy when he does. Aziraphale studies Adam.

“She moved power around. The lesser angels and demons have more power than the upper leaders?”

Adam nods, annoyed. “That’s what I said.”

“What about Satan?” Crowley croaks from the floor.

Adam shrugs, “Same thing.”

“You’re telling me that the devil is now just a normal guy?” Wensleydale asks, incredulous.

Crowley staggers to his feet and heads for the sink. He slips in a pool of Mary’s blood but catches himself before he falls. He glares at the puddle and it sinks away. Then he turns on the tap and cups his hand under the water. He rinses his mouth, then braces both arms on the counter around the sink. Crowley’s head hangs low as if he’s slotting information into his mind.

“No, he’s a lowly demon. He’s…” Aziraphale lets his words drift away and studies the line of Crowley’s back. It’s stiff like he’s keeping himself from trembling. “He’s what Crowley was, I believe.” Aziraphale lets his vision change. He studies Crowley’s form in another plane of reality.

“And it appears,” he says slowly, “that Crowley now has Satan’s abilities and limitations.”

“You mean lack of limitations, right?” Adam clarifies.

Distantly, Aziraphale agonizes. First, his lover is now powerful enough to rule Hell. Second, it appears to be making him physically sick. Third, Adam knew before Aziraphale did. Although to be fair, he’s not sure that Crowley had completely figured it out yet himself either.

“You’re more too, angel. Like an archangel now, I think,” Crowley says, his back still stiff and turned.

“I’ve not become Lucifer though,” Aziraphale snaps, his worry taking over his tongue. He winces. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for.”

He expects Crowley to rear back and retort with his usual acid. Instead of a retort, however, he merely inclines his head in acquiescence.

“I don’t want this,” he says.

“Neither do I, my darling,” Aziraphale agrees. He joins Crowley at the sink and touches his elbow. Crowley looks at him over his sunglasses with very little movement of his neck. “We have to assume that She wanted us to take these roles to stop what’s happening.”

“If you have so much power,” Wensleydale conjectures, “could you bring back the sun?”

It seems to bring Crowley up short. He raises an eyebrow and shares a look at the angel.

“I’m not sure, my dear,” Aziraphale begins, but his brain is spinning. “It was a Scroll.”

“Was it?” Crowley asks slowly, his own mind whirling away. “We saw the sunrise this morning… it was black.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Pepper says. “The sun isn’t solid. We learned that this year. It’s like lava.”

Crowley smirks, “Not really, it’s all gases, but, yeah, some plasma.” His face takes on a look of wonder. “I could take us all there. We could see it up close… well, maybe, wait.” He turns his head like a confused dog. “She’s right, you know. The sun is nothing but hydrogen and energy. It’s heat and light… no one should be able to change its color. It doesn’t _have_ a color.”

Adam and Wensleydale share a look. “It was hot this afternoon,” Adam states.

“And I got a sunburn from our walk,” Brian adds.

“That’s UV light though,” Wensleydale announces and Crowley nods.

“You think the sun is still giving off light?” Pepper asks her friends. “So they made a,” she thinks, “hoover effect to suck up the light.”

“That makes sense. A vacuum,” Wensleydale defines.

“We saw our torchlight get sucked away,” Adam continues.

Aziraphale is watching Crowley’s face, however. A tiny muscle in his jaw works as he thinks. He strokes his fingertips down his throat.

“A black hole,” he muses. “They created a mutated black hole. How did they… I mean it’s not absorbing anything else.”

Wensleydale perks up. “Don’t they absorb everything?”

Crowley’s fingers are nearly hypnotic as they stroke his neck. “Time runs backward inside them—they’re infinite. But how did they… Right.”

The decision apparently made the demon strides out of the room. The children chase after him and Aziraphale yells.

“Wait! Children! Don’t go outside!”

He’s huffing and puffing when he catches up to them. Thankfully, they were fairly obedient children. They each look at him with questioning eyes.

“Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, do not look up. Demons and Angels are not in their human forms. You will go mad if you look at them. I think it would be best if you just stay in the foyer and watch Crowley from here,” he says, aiming for a stern tone.

“We want to help!” Brian states.

The other children nod emphatically.

“An admirable goal,” Aziraphale praises.

“But, at this moment, one that will likely kill you,” Crowley says, dryly. “Angel says you stay inside, so you stay inside. I won’t go far. You should still have front row seats.”

He shoves the front door open and strides out with Aziraphale behind him. The demon pats the bonnet of the Aston Martin as he passes it then spins on his heels and faces the sky.

“Whatdya think, angel? Black hole in the sky? The illusion of darkness? Curtain?” he wiggles his fingers upward, ignoring the immortal forms intertwined in a battle over their heads.

“In Egypt, it was a curse of darkness,” Aziraphale reminds.

Crowley considers this. “How was that done?”

The angel thinks back, “I believe all the light was simply directed someplace else.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t a part of the planning stages.”

Crowley waves the concern away and holds out his hand. “Shall we find out?”

Aziraphale clasps their hands together and feels Crowley dragging him into another plane of existence. His many eyes open and he expands around Crowley protectively.

He feels the demon chuckle. “Tickles,” he comments, happily.

There is no sound, of course. They do not need to speak in these forms, but it’s comforting to use human language even still. Crowley and Aziraphale’s attention travels through the ground and out the far side of the Earth’s sphere. The sun is hovering in the sky somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Darkness spreads around the globe, but beyond the atmosphere, all is as it should be.

“Curtain!” Aziraphale exclaims wordlessly. “Just a curse then.”

“And there’s the how,” Crowley teaches and directs the angel’s eyes toward a spot of infinite darkness far past the Moon.

The black hole lacks temporal coordinates and is invisible to the human eye. If Aziraphale were to describe the way it felt, it was the opposite of floating in Anathema’s guest room. There is too much gravity. Light compresses and disappears. It’s tiny, in terms of the universe. Aziraphale studies it and sees the way demonic and angelic magic spin together to form it.

“They planned this,” he notes, allowing his observation to float around them.

Crowley finds a bit of demonic power and plucks it free. It unspools.

“Your turn,” he says as he pushes the power into the Earth’s atmosphere.

Aziraphale examines the area where Crowley places the starstuff. “Did you just lower the atmospheric temperature of the planet?”

Crowley lacks shoulders in this form, but he shrugs anyway. “Yeah. I might mess with the ocean temperatures too.”

“Allow me, my dear. I know you do so favor those dolphins and whales,” Aziraphale decides as he tugs on angelic power from the black hole.

And so it goes, trading back and forth the opportunity to remove the joint curse of darkness. It warps and wobbles like a spinning coin before it falls. Then Crowley guides Aziraphale closer.

“Let’s make a baby, angel,” Crowley says with a seductive leer.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale tuts, fastidiously.

Crowley laughs, bright and joyous as his essence wraps sensuously around Aziraphale’s. He guides their beings around the remains of the black hole. Then, Aziraphale feels Crowley let loose his emotions. Love radiates out of the demon in spurts. Aziraphale feels it all: fast driving, Malbec, cigars, foot massages, hot sand, long naps, Aziraphale reading, Aziraphale laughing, Aziraphale sleeping, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.

And how can an angel keep a tight hold on his own emotions when faced with such adoration? His own love springs forth and he lets his memories wash out of him. From meeting Crowley on the wall of Eden to the way he looks during a candlelit dinner, his love radiates. He slackens the reins on his feelings and saturates the universe. Crowley cries out in surprise and wraps his form around Aziraphale’s tighter.

The black hole doesn’t stand a chance. It erupts. Light and new stars explode from its density. The Earth shivers and the curse of darkness evaporates. Six thousand years of fidelity, affection, and friendship shower onto the planet, and humanity basks. Aziraphale feels their reinsured hopes smash into him and he reels. Crowley clutches him closer and draws them back toward their physical forms.

Aziraphale settles back into his corporal form with a pleased sigh. He opens his eyes, but too many blink with him. He hears Crowley chuckle, a snakelike hiss.

“Just two,” he says, his sibilants long, “angel, just two.”

And Aziraphale stuffs the extra eyes back into the background. He touches his face to ensure he’s not crying blood. He pulls his fingers back to study them and sees only water. Then, overtop of his fingertips, he sees Crowley looking up at the sky. Stars sparkle above them and a few clouds linger. It’s a beautiful night.

“Did it work?” Brian asks, excitedly.

“It did. The sun shall rise again!” Aziraphale declares, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s neck.

He kisses his lover deeply and the demon responds in kind. Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back.

“Where did they go?” he asks, sharply.

Aziraphale twists back and looks upward again. The battling armies are missing from the sky.

“Crowley, where are they?” he yelps.

The demon flexes his fingers on Aziraphale’s back. “Huh,” is all he says.

* * *

The children all stare at the sky in wonder. Crowley points out constellations and Aziraphale listens with the same rapt attention as the demon names each one. The new stars that they birthed are just dancing over the far treetops when Wensleydale begins to rub his eyes. All four of the kids had been yawning for at least an hour but refused to be chased back to bed. They’re feeling the zest of life. Theirs is a moment of wonder. It’s the same that everyone feels when they’ve conquered a fear.

Aziraphale studies the three new stars that he helped place. In a time of terror and death, their beauty is something to behold.

“They’re born of love,” he mutters, overjoyed.

Pepper kneels down on the ground where Dog is sleeping. She lifts the small animal into her arms.

“We need to sleep. The sun will be back tomorrow,” she says with the same confidence that she had when she faced off with War herself.

“Have peaceful dreams,” Aziraphale blesses, absently. His eyes are still locked on the news stars.

The children troop back into the building and Crowley steps behind his lover. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s chest and pulls him back to his own chest.

“You made so many of them,” Aziraphale whispers, his vision lit with diamond stars. “Did they all feel like that?”

The rush of love and joy has cradled him against the negativity that still courses through Earth’s air.

“Not even close,” Crowley admits. “I remember loving it. It was fun to craft them, but that,” he smiles softly and kisses Aziraphale’s temple, “that was like nothing else before.”

They stand together for long moments before Aziraphale snaps his fingers and they reappear in the guest room of Jasmine Cottage. They strip in silence and slide under the duvet one behind the other. Aziraphale’s stomach growls and Crowley laughs softly. He reaches over to the bedside table and drops his sunglasses there. When his arm returns to the bed, he has a plate full of bacon butties.

“Plenty of brown sauce, as per your specifications,” he draws, like a bored waiter.

“These looks scrummy,” Aziraphale admits, before shoving one into Crowley’s hand. “Tuck in.”

And he waits, expectantly, until Crowley has taken his first bite. Then, with a moan of pleasure, the angel devours the sandwich in his hand. There are still three on the plate and he wiggles his fingers before selecting one. Crowley licks his fingers as he slides down the bed to snuggle into Aziraphale’s hip. It unsettles the angel.

“My dear, please,” he takes a shaky breath, “up here, my heart’s darling. Up here.”

Crowley sits up on one elbow with a raised eyebrow. He studies Aziraphale’s face, then clamors in between the angel’s legs. He slithers up his chest and pillows his head on Aziraphale’s pectoral. He wiggles. Aziraphale lets him settle before he uses the rise of the demon’s ass as the table for his plate.

“Ah, your reasoning appears,” Crowley teases, sleepily.

“Hush,” Aziraphale admonishes and takes a bite.

He drapes his arm across Crowley’s back and holds him tight against him. Suddenly, the fight goes out of his muscles and he collapses against the angel. Sleep envelops him nearly instantly.It’s easy right then for such a thing to happen as negativity isn’t overwhelming. With the disappearance of the black hole and the shower of their feelings for each other and their home, the world's despair is muted. On certain coasts, the sun shines again and people explode with delight. Their grief still lingers, but hope is breaking through. It takes an edge off the panic. It lets Crowley sleep and Aziraphale eat.

As the demon snores on his chest and he empties his plate, Aziraphale considers the largest concern at the moment: the empty battlefield. Where had the warring sides disappeared to and why? The first was the obvious break in their plan as the darkness disappeared. No doubt the surprise from such a change could inspire a retreat.

Aziraphale reviews his own time as a soldier in the mortal wars. Battle was fickle. No charge or retreat order made sense to all men. Some corners were victorious, while others were defeated. Humans tired. Their steeds perished. Their weapons were lost. Flags fell and leaders died. Sometimes, fear just overwhelmed the troops. But these elements did not matter to angels or demons.In the Heavenly War That Was, no one ever stopped to rest or flee. It was an endless loop of death and sulfur. There were no trials. Execution or damnation was handed out by each side without discrimination.

Crowley once said that he made his choice. He’d lept after the others because he didn’t understand Heaven’s black or white thinking. Aziraphale cards his fingers through the short hairs at Crowley’s neck. When Hell had the same either-or options, Crowley made his own greyscale. Now, once again, they’re stuck trying to apply their grey values to a world where no one understands it's an option.

Aziraphale sets the empty plate on the side table and settles more comfortably against the pillows.

“Hell said Heaven betrayed them with the Ark,” he mutters aloud. “But it disappeared.”

He worries his lip with his teeth. Had the Host hidden it as a last resort? He considers this, if so, that means that Hell’s inside information was wrong. Heaven seemed just as perplexed about the Ark’s location. That was all learned from Adam, of course. This leaves him muttering as he tries to remember the exact wording of Satan’s message through Adam. Hell was certain of its victory due to Heaven’s hubris.

This gives the angel pause. He considers this. Maybe there was something to that. Heaven was still running off the playbook from before—as it was Written. Hell, however, seemed convinced that it would fail without any need for war at all. Worry gnarled at him. He and Crowley knew that the Host was suffering under the pulse of despair. What if Hell had already discovered this and was letting it play out?

Crowley snuffles on his chest and smacks his lips in his sleep. Aziraphale pulls the duvet higher over his shoulders and Crowley sighs in pleasure. Then, like someone had thrown cold water over him, the demon leaps up. He scrambles around and pulls at Aziraphale’s arms to drag him from the bed.

“Angel! They’re coming!”

He struggles free of the duvet just as something explodes outside the front door to Jasmine Cottage. Crowley tries to help Aziraphale off the mattress, but trips and collides with the floor. Demonic presence burns through the air. The sound of claws and boots race through the house below them. Hell has seized the house.

Aziraphale snaps and they’re dressed. It’s not much power, but he’s suddenly woozy. Crowley extracts himself from the duvet and pulls Aziraphale to his feet. With one snap, Aziraphale’s magic is topped off and they’ve disappeared from Jasmine Cottage. They reappear down the road from the hospital by several kilometers. Crowley turns a slow circle in the early dawn, his hands flame-like weapons. Aziraphale’s sword is in his hand like instinct, licking with similar fire. Behind them, Jasmine Cottage explodes. They both jump at the boom and face the fireball that blazes into the sky. The fog illuminates red and, even from this distance, Aziraphale can see the waves of heat.

“Hellfire,” Crowley mutters. “Fuckers.”

His hands flicker and the fire dies away. He grabs Aziraphale by the arm and pulls him down the road, putting the remains of the house behind them.

“Gotta keep you clear of the smoke,” the demon mutters as they hike through the forest-lined road toward the hospital.

All of this green space was once the land of Tadfield Manor. Like so many of those grand houses, though, the upkeep was too great and it was sold off piecemeal. Aziraphale does not look at the shadowed trees and think of the history, however, he only looks for dark shapes and sniffs for brimstone. That’s mainly why he’s surprised when someone else’s magic flows over them and they’re not where they were before.

Crowley gives a groan and turns a slow circle. They’re no longer in Tadfield, that’s apparent. Instead, they’re in the center of Rollright Stone Circle. Aziraphale gasps. There is one thing that he’d forgotten in all this: Anathema’s visions. So far, they’d come true in one form or another—all except one.

Then, Azrael appears before them with a handful of other angels and, to Aziraphale’s surprise, several minor deities. Crowley laughs and grabs Yeshua into a hug.

“Mary!” Yeshua exclaims from his embrace.

Crowley blushes to the root of his hair. “Yeah, it’s just, you know, Crowley now.”

Yeshua grins and waves Vishnu over. “This is the demon I was telling you about. Mary—I mean, Crowley, this is Vishnu.”

They shake hands and Aziraphale’s world vision tilts on its axis. “Crowley,” he begins and the demon guides him closer with a hand in the small of his back.

“Angel, this is Yeshua. Yeshua, Vishnu, this is the Principality Aziraphale,” he says it warmly, but Yeshua’s eyes twinkle devilishly.

“Ah yes, I’ve heard all about you from Mary—er, sorry, that’s going to take some getting used to,” Yeshua admits.

Vishnu is studying Crowley with barely concealed jealousy. Aziraphale feels something similar bubbling in him.

“My dear, are you telling me that you dated the Christ Child?” he asks Crowley, with a tinge of humor. He hopes it hides his bitchy primness.

Crowley blushes harder and fidgets with the arm of his sunglasses. “I wouldn’t use that word exactly.”

“Friends with benefits, really,” Yeshua supplies, with a grin. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Aziraphale. He only ever talked about his angel.”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley, “Showed him all the kingdoms of the world, did you?”

Azrael sighs.

END OF THE WORLD, YOU IDIOTS. WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

Aziraphale hums in agreement but continues to look at Crowley. Judging by his contrite and embarrassed face, he’s aware that they’ll be discussing this later. Vishnu steps on Yeshua’s foot and he yelps.

“Hey, there’s a scar there—easy does it,” he complains before suddenly changing his tone to something more placating. “Aww, babe, it was a lifetime ago! You know that I’m only attracted to beings with multiple arms now.”

A group of small demons scuttles out of the darkness and Aziraphale rears back, but Crowley waves away his concerns. He leans over and offers his hand to an imp.

“Hey, Signal,” he greets. “Been a few millennia.”

Signal the imp shakes Crowley’s hand in his tiny grey one. “Yep, sure has. Good to see you, Serpent.”

Before introductions can continue, the Archangel Jeremiel steps forward. They’re less than before, just as Gabriel, Beelzebub, and Dagon had been.

“Thank you all for coming. I feel I must start as Azrael and I have had our hands forced. We must begin to right our actions,” Jeremiel states. “As the angel Aziraphale reminded Death himself, many of us here are to be neutral forces.”

The sun is rising and the sky is lighting. Aziraphale nearly weeps with joy at the light. Yet there it is still dark outside the ring. Other imps linger there, but he can also make out War and Famine sharing a cigarette. No doubt Pollution and Pestilence aren’t too far away either. His eyes drift to the minor deities. The Christ Child and Vishnu stand near Jupiter, Odin, Hecate, and Sekhmet. A few other angels, mostly lower hierarchies mix in.

“How do a group of archangels and demonic princes force a neutral force to kill a third of the world?” asks Pollution from behind Aziraphale.

They’re looking dirtier than ever, with disposable masks and gloves stitched together to make their suit. Azrael studies them without eyes.

THEY WOULD CAST ME OUT IF I DID NOT HONOR THE SCROLL.

“That’s impossible,” Odin rumbles. “Death is a part of life. If not for you, how would mortals enter Valhalla?”

Pestilence sneers in a very American manner. He’s wearing a t-shirt that proclaims that avoiding a mask in public is his right and a trucker cap that claims vaccines cause Autism.

“So you let them bully you. Typical. I knew we should have stepped up and—“

AND WHAT? OPENED A STRAIN OF ILLNESS THAT NO ONE ASKED YOU TO?

“Nobody’s in Heaven to tell me ‘no’, now is there?” Pestilence replies.

“Just because something can be done, doesn’t mean that it should be done!” Hera growls.

Several imps agree. A smaller, paperwork angel nods vigorously.

“So here we are, trying to clean up your mess,” Pestilence continues.

“Enough!” Aziraphale shouts. His voice rings, bell-like, off the stone circle. “Enough.”

Crowley studies him before he clears his throat with a hiss. “We think we can stop this.”

War steps into the circle. Dawn creeps into the sky behind her with lavender grey mist.

“Anthony,” she says with a vicious smile.

“Hey Carmine,” Crowley greet in return.

Aziraphale stares at him. “Friends with benefits _again_ , my dear?”

Crowley shrugs slowly, his blush renewed over his cheeks and ears. “Battle of Willows?”

“And Volturnus and Hastings… I forget the rest. Don’t worry, pretty,” War teases Aziraphale with a wink, “I haven’t seen him in his birthday suit since the thirteenth century.”

Crowley avoids everyone’s eye and watches the sun break the horizon.

Jeremiel rolls their eyes and looks at War, “You have something helpful to add, or are we just going to review the demon’s conquests?”

War smiles indulgently, “Hell is going to win.”

The angels recoil, even Aziraphale winces. Crowley shakes his head in disagreement, but War carries on.

“They’ve got the upper hand at this point. Satan plans to take the field himself today,” she informs.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” one of the paperwork angels argues. “No one has the same ability to hold power as they did before. I can do guardian duties now, that’s nearly triple my power allotment.”

WHAT WOULD THAT MEAN FOR THE KING OF HELL?

“He’s been reduced too,” Signal informs. “All the Princes are basically temptation demons and the Dukes just like imps.”

“What does that mean for you?” Vishnu queries politely to the imp.

Signal looks uncertain, before clearing his tiny throat and carrying on. “I believe I could do Duke Hastur’s jobs if they needed doing.”

Quiet commentary breaks out around the circle as each speaks to someone next to them in surprise. Some of the minor deities survey the demons and angels, as if looking to see what they could accomplish in their current states. Crowley digs the toe of his boot into the dirt, essentially removing an entire mass of weed from the ground. Aziraphale wants to shield him, but fears it would actually draw more attention.

ARE WE SAYING THEN THAT THE WAR CANNOT BE WON?

War rolls her eyes, “Nope, it'll be won all right. Hell’s got it in the bag. Heaven is expecting some divine intervention—they’d planned to sacrifice a child, but that didn’t work out. They’d planned to use the Ark, again, no dice.”

“They expected to call our Mother?” Jeremeil clarifies. “I think we’ve determined that She is unable to be reached.”

War shrugs. “So they tried to make a new Christ out of angel parts no less. Sacrifice it and She’d come. Didn’t work out that way.”

War looks over to Aziraphale and Crowley, clearly expecting them to take up the tale. Crowley clears his throat again.

“Beelzebub killed Gabriel and the second Christ, in utero.”

Again, the bubble of conversation expands.

GABRIEL IS DEAD?

“Yeah, he, ugh, was stabbed with a cursed blade. Aziraphale smote Dagon—“

Jupiter interrupts Crowley, “He managed to kill one demon, but not the other?”

Aziraphale feels all eyes shift to him, “I had hoped to—“

“I was responsible for letting Beelzebub go,” Crowley interjects, his lie smooth. “I should have killed them, but I didn’t.”

“Old allegiance to Hell?” some paperwork angel asks with a sneer. The other angels agree quietly from their group.

Crowley replies cooly, “No, I just don’t like killing things. It’s messy and the guilt lingers on my conscious for too long.”

This shuts the angels up. They look at each other, lost. Signal the imp shakes his head in disbelief.

“You really are the worst demon ever,” he says.

Crowley flips him the v with two fingers and shoves his hands into his pockets. He shrugs his shoulders in tight and makes himself smaller. Aziraphale lets his jealous wash away and touches the demon’s elbow.

“We were able to make the darkness dissipate,” he says to the group. “Crowley is getting extra power from the negative emotions, but it’s draining mine.”

“See!” War shouts. “We need to hedge our bets and join alliances with Hell. We might still be able to save humanity that way—“

“—Excuse me, I was not finished,” Aziraphale says primly. “Crowley has been able to drain some of his excess power into me.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” an imp says slowly. “The nature of our powers are different: evil and good.”

Crowley shrugs, “Aziraphale and I are more neutral. We chose the side of humanity. We choose what is ethical to us.”

Famine strides forward with a cocky smirk. “You’re telling me that you’re unable to fight in the war because you’re traitors, but that it’s given you more power? Ha. I call bullshit.”

Aziraphale has had enough. The hand on Crowley’s elbow requests power and Crowley grants it. It shoots into him and refills his miracles. With his other hand, he snaps. Rollright Stones shoot out of the ground, restored as they were centuries past. They’re established tall and in the proper formation. A druid of old could come and perform her magics without questioning the ley lines—this is clearly a place of power.

Famine turns slowly and studies it. Crowley pushes some more power into Aziraphale, like a backup battery.

“Right,” Famine concludes slowly, “but you’d have to work together.”

“We do our best work together,” Crowley hisses.

YOU COULD PULL ALL OF HEAVEN AND HELL’S POWER INTO…

Azrael’s idea stops short. It’s an idea, but no vessel is strong enough to hold that sort of power. It would be world ending. Which, Aziraphale considers, might have been the original idea.

Signal shakes his head, “Wouldn’t work. Neutral power, they said. Like us in this circle. We’re deciding to stand on our own—let life continue.”

“Besides,” Jupiter continues, inspecting his nail beds, “without power in the afterlife, where would the humans go?”

Yeshua and Vishnu are sharing a long look. Aziraphale knows this. It’s the silent communication of two beings who have spent thousands of years together. It’s built on respect and friendship but mortared with love.

“We created a pocket dimension,” Vishnu says slowly, “for the minor deities.”

This isn’t groundbreaking and several of the others in the circle shift, bored. Aziraphale can see that they’re building to something though, so he waits.

“What if we shoved all of Heaven and Hell’s combined power into the dimension, then accessed the power to… basically extend life here,” Vishnu concludes.

“That’s maybe possible," Crowley agrees, stretching out the words as he thinks. “Lots of facets. Loads of moving parts. We’d need… conduits to siphon the power. And, as we said, in that state, it would be too binary of power. It’d have to be neutral for us to handle.”

“So we change the nature of the power,” Aziraphale continues.

“Angel, how are we going to do that?” Crowley asks with exasperation.

Aziraphale grins, feeling hopeful for the first time. “Easy, my dear. With imagination.”


	25. SOMEWHERE ON EARTH, 7 HOURS LEFT, ANATHEMA

SOMEWHERE ON EARTH, 7 HOURS LEFT, ANATHEMA

Anathema knows this is a dream. She stands in front of her bathroom mirror. It’s clouded with fog like after a hot bath. She reaches up and wipes the mirror with the flat of her hand. As she does, the wall behind her bursts into flames.

She whirls around, but the fire is not there.

She returns to her reflection and the wall collapses.

Again, when she turns, the wall is as it should be.

This time, when she returns to the mirror, yellow snake eyes peer at her over her shoulder.

“Crowley?” she asks, but her voice sounds like it is underwater.

  
The eyes blink slowly. Anathema swings to face him but finds an empty bathroom. When she returns to the mirror, it is now a doorway. The warping reality of dreams, she thinks. As she walks through it, it becomes the path that leads to Rollright Stone Circle.

“I’ve been here before,” she says aloud.

Indeed, she has walked this path in her dreams and with her physical feet before. Unlike her previous visits, however, the stone circle is restored. It looks as it did so long ago. She studies it carefully, pleased to see it complete without her imagination. As she approaches the stones, Anathema sees others there. The Them all linger there, poking about the stones in their pajamas.

“Anathema?” Pepper calls when she sees her.

“Yes, I’m here,” she greets.

The children exchange looks.

“Oh,” she exclaims, “you’re _here_ too, aren’t you? You’re dream walking.”

Adam glances down at his hands. “I guess so?”

Then there’s a flutter of feathers and Aziraphale and Crowley stand beside them, wings extended. They’re dressed in long tunics as if it’s eons passed. Aziraphale’s outfit is drapes of white fabric edged with gold embroidery. Crowley is in gray and black, with long auburn ringlets hanging over his shoulders. His eyes are uncovered and look as snake-like as they ever had. A breeze ruffles their feathers.

“Children,” Aziraphale greets all five of them.

Anathema almost allows herself to become irritated. Then, all things considered, it makes sense from him. He’s seen the dawn of humanity; to him, she is an infant.

“The world is ending,” the angel considers and he looks apologetic. “We think we have a plan, but it’s going to need your help again, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll need those old people then too,” Brian declares. “They were here to help before.”

“And Newt,” Anathema says before she can stop herself.

Crowley meets her eye and it reflects nothing but sadness. Dreams carry knowledge in ways that the conscious world does not. Anathema knows that Newton is dead. She should feel the beginnings of grief, but instead, the knowledge just rings in her as something to accept. She moves on, as one does in a dream.

“I’m not sure Shadwell will be any help to us,” Aziraphale admits. “He’s mostly just bluster and homophobia if our past interactions are anything to go by.”

Crowley snorts then address the group for the first time, “We’ve got a plan, _well_ , sort of. More of a guideline, really.”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale admonishes. He smiles at them, “We are going to absorb all of Heaven and Hell’s power and redistribute it as neutral power into the world so that when people should die… they, well, won’t.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Pepper declares. “The Earth can’t handle that many people. You know, overpopulation.”

Aziraphale blinks, stunned, and Anathema nearly laughs.

“Well, umm, right, yes, of course,” the angel bumbles.

Crowley rubs the sigil at his temple, as he says, “We could just revamp the afterlife. Not a terrible idea, really, the humans are good at that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale considers Crowley, “You think they’d be interested in doing that?”

“Eh, why not? They’re humans. They make up endless creative outlets, what’s one more?” he replies. “It could just be two retirement communities basically. Up or Down. No more value statements associated with either.”

“But what about the bad people?” Wensleydale asks, curiously. “The ones who are supposed to, you know, go down there.”

Crowley grimaces, “Trust me, they’re not all bad.”

Aziraphale smiles, indulgently, “Some of them just ‘sauntered vaguely downward’, I believe.”

“What does that mean?” Brian asks as Pepper shrugs.

“It means some of us just asked questions and ended up in Hell,” Crowley finishes.

Anathema recoils in surprise, “Questions?”

“Yeah, I could see that,” Adam admits, with tween self-confidence, “my dad gets annoyed if I ask too many questions. He’ll make me wait for six minutes before I can ask another.”

Wensleydale nods in sympathy, “Yeah, I just go look it up then. It’s easier than making my parents cross.”

Crowley hugs himself and his wings lower. Aziraphale lifts one of his wings over Crowley’s head and the demon startles. His eyes swim in tears when he sees the angel’s pose. He looks away and Aziraphale speaks.

“Crowley long ago discovered that our hardest work usually affected very little in way of souls to one side or the other. In fact, it seemed that the divide was fifty-fifty, even if we stayed home,” Aziraphale admits.

“But some people really deserved it, right?” Brian clarifies.

Crowley shrugs and steps closer to Aziraphale. The angel’s wing lowers so that feathers brush over red curls. It seems to comfort him enough to answer the boy.

“Sure, some of them. Some of them just, you know, weren’t always nice when they should have been,” he continues with a shrug.

Anathema hums with secret pleasure. She’d always hoped that those religions that claimed their way was the only way were wrong.

“We can restructure things later,” she says, directing the conversation. “The goal right now is to claim the powers.”

Aziraphale nods, clearly pleased with the focus, “All the negativity is draining the power from the angels, but it’s supercharging the demons.”

“So we need to make somewhere to take the drained power and save it?” Pepper clarifies, her eyes keen.

“Just so, dear girl. And a way to bring up positivity and drain the demons,” he says.

“But it’ll drain you both,” Adam says, very softly. “You’ll lose your powers.”

Crowley’s eyes dart over to him. “Probably.”

Aziraphale looks stricken. “We need to be able to direct the power,” he argues. “Without us, the power will be inaccessible.”

Crowley nods, “Yep.”

“You knew this?” the angel rounds on the demon.

“I thought you’d already figured it out when you agreed to the plan! Damn it, angel!” He starts to say something else but breaks off in a mix of growl and grunt. He tugs at his own hair.

Aziraphale sputters, but they’ve clearly reached an impasse. They face off and Crowley lowers his wing over them for privacy. They mutter to one another. Judging by the occasionally raised voices, it’s going to be one of those arguments that aren’t settled right away. The children shift and look to Anathema for reassurance.

She decides to change the subject, “Am I in labor?”

Crowley’s wing tucks back to allow Aziraphale access to the others. However, the demon shutters further and draws in on himself. Aziraphale rubs his face with his hands. The children also look uncomfortable.

“Witch,” Crowley says, his voice unsure, “do you mind if we talk away from the kids?”

He begins to walk out of the stone circle and she follows him. Behind them, she heard the children brainstorming creative ways to allow Crowley and Aziraphale to keep their powers within the existing plan. Crowley stops with the stones behind him and leans against one of them.

“Right,” he begins without meeting her eyes, “first, you need to know that you’re in a medically induced coma.”

She squawks, but he continues. “Gabriel attacked, remember? I took your… womb with the infant in it and put it into the angel.”

“You what?” she shouts.

The demon isn’t surprised. He looks at his hands, “I took your ability to say ‘no’ and that is… the most demonic thing I’ve ever done. I am sorry, Anathema. Look at me, apologizing, that’s new,” he mumbles at the end of his words.

She stares at him and he clears his throat. “I can make you a new uterus, you know if you’d like. It’ll take some… doing and will have to be soon if I’m about to lose my powers.”

“You took the infant,” she clarifies.

He nods, slowly, as if she’s simple.

“It died, didn’t it? He sacrificed it?! You _let_ him sacrifice—“

“No, no, witch girl. Beelzebub attacked. They killed Gabriel and the infant before it even saw the light of day,” he says, his voice a gentle rumble.

“You let him kill my child?” she whimpers.

“Wasn’t yours. It was all angelic power,” he replies, carefully. He wants to soothe her, but she can tell he won’t touch her without her permission. “But I took something from you and I am sorry.”

Anathema can’t reply. She walks away. She never wanted to be a mother, but she cannot forgive him for this. His duplicity stings because Anathema had trusted him. She imagines her grandmother and mother staring at her incredulously over Agnes’s book.

“You trusted a _demon_ , hija?” they’d ask.

Tears blur her eyes as she reenters the stones. The kids all see her coming and hurry to her side. She wipes her eyes.

“We think we could dream up a machine that will change the powers from good and evil to neutral!” Adam informs her. “Aziraphale thinks the trick is all in imagination.”

“Well,” she says, her voice thick, “they came to the right people. I’ve never met people with better imaginations before.”

Crowley enters the stone circle behind her but lingers at the edge.

“We’re going to begin,” Pepper declares and a dagger manifests in her hand like they do in dreams.

“Let’s do it,” Brian agrees with a similar knife in his hand.

Anathema freezes. She swings around and sees Crowley there. If he were weeping and blood dripped from the daggers, this would be her dream.

“Why do we need knives?” Wensleydale asks, expectantly.

“These sort of stories always need a sacrifice,” Pepper shrugs. “You know like the knight has to cut through brambles and it hurts her?”

“Why is the knight cutting through brambles?” Brian interrupts.

“I thought the knight was going to save a princess when that happens?” Wensleydale asks, in his intelligent way.

“Ugh, she was?” Pepper replies in a sardonic way.

Aziraphale smiles at each of them, pleased.

“What will you sacrifice?” Anathema asks, half concerned about what answer they’ll give.

They look at each other. Crowley steps up to their group.

“Use me,” he says softly.

Aziraphale blanches, “My darling?”

“You can use me,” he repeats.

The children panic. Anathema stares at the demon as the children’s words roll through the air.

“I’m not killing anyone!”

“No, we can’t hurt you!”

Aziraphale’s wings hang limp as he approaches Crowley. “Crowley, no.”

“I’ve done,” his voice chokes, “ _the_ worst thing, angel. I swore I’d never take Free Will from them. I owe them—“

“No, this is insane,” Anathema argues. “You were wrong, but what you’re asking is insane.”

She waves her hand and with dream logic, the daggers evaporate. The kids all cry out in disappointment, but it’s tinged with relief.

“I’m sacrificing my ability to have future children,” Anathema announces and the children collectively stare. “It’s done. Sacrifice made.”

Crowley still won’t meet her eye. His wings are sleek and groomed, but droop despondently. The kids, on the other hand, approach her and thank her.

“You’ve saved the world,” Wensleydale states, joyfully.

“In her own way, she had the Christ Child after all,” Crowley says softly to Aziraphale, but Anathema hears it anyway.

“Let’s not go renaming her ‘Miriam’ just yet, my dear.”

“We were thinking about the positivity bit,” Adam says as he grabs a stick and draws in the dirt.

He maps something out as he speaks, “What if we sucked up the angels’ powers,” he points to one of the squares in his sketch, “we could announce something to the world and everyone would celebrate.”

Pepper also finds a stick and points to the triangle on the front of the box in Adam’s sketch. “We’d have to have some way to suck up the powers. We were thinking like a funnel—“

“And during the celebration, everyone would feel really good and happy again and we could suck up the demons’ powers,” Brian concludes.

“We could send out balloons for the announcement,” Wensleydale suggests. “Or dry leaflets like in the war.”

“Nah,” Pepper shoots this down, “that’s not good for the planet.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees, tapping his teeth with the end of his stick, “the sea turtles eat the balloons.”

“It’s a good start, but, kids, I want you to know,” Crowley starts, then hesitates.

Aziraphale, with concerned eyes, touches the demon’s shoulder. Crowley clears his throat, but his words come out with a hiss when he speaks next.

“Hell is going to bulldoze its way onto Earth. It’s going to start razing and torturing—that’s all they know. It’s going to be instantaneous. Some of them,” here his hiss is long and angry, “only enjoy hurting people. It’s all they want.”

“Whatever we do, will have to be fast once Heaven falls,” Aziraphale summarizes.

The Them consider each other. They put their heads together and whisper, suggesting ideas and casting them aside.

Anathema thinks back to the daytime before Gabriel attacked and impregnated her.

“Heaven blew a huge trumpet. What if we used that to make the announcement?” she asks carefully.

“But wouldn’t it be in English?” Adam worries. “We need everyone to be happy, not just—“

“We could speak in Enochian,” Aziraphale decides, his voice lifting with enthusiasm. “Humans hear it in their native tongue.”

“It has the added benefit of completely deafening demons for several minutes,” Crowley retorts, but he doesn’t dispute the plan.

Aziraphale swats at him, but it’s playful. He sees success in their plan. Anathema sees a hole in their plan.

“Will you still be able to speak Enochian, Aziraphale?” she asks. “Or use Heaven’s PA system?”

Aziraphale falters and his wings droop limply like Crowley’s. They make a sad pair.

“I was thinking that what you both need is a bubble,” Wensleydale decides, pointing to the circle that sits on top of the sketch. “That would keep you both able to use your powers.”

“How about those others,” Aziraphale hedges, “the others who are neutral?”

“There are more like you?” Anathema asks.

Crowley nods slowly. “Some of them are helping this dream happen. An angel, actually, but there’s some demons here too. Along with some old deities that people don’t worship anymore.”

“We can’t trust them,” she decides. “They’ll have to lose their powers—“

“That’s not fair,” Brian argues.

“We’re talking about saving the world,” she replies, sharply, her voice rising.

“And we’re on the side of Free Will,” Crowley says, his voice stronger than before. “We will not take that decision from them. That’s not what we’re about.”

He grimaces, then looks at Anathema apologetically. “We’ll give them a chance to join us. If they do, they can keep their abilities.”

“And if they turn on us?” she asks, suspiciously.

Aziraphale smiles at her indulgently, “Then they will be just like any other human on Earth. You are capable of great things. Sometimes those are greatly evil.”

“But they’ll have superpowers,” Adam says, slowly.

“There are super villains in humanity too,” Wensleydale replies thoughtfully.

“Just so, Jeremy,” Aziraphale agrees. “Cecil Rhodes, Pol Pot, Caligula, Torquemada, were just that as well. And were perfectly human. They welded as much power as we ever did in Heaven.”

“Or Hell,” Crowley agrees.

Adam sees them both. “This is like when we went to the desert. This is like what you told me then too.”

Crowley shrugs and it encompasses his wings. “You’re humans. You’re the best of everything creation included. You were Her opus. We know you can save us.”

Fog rolls into the stone circle. Brian blinks slowly. “I think I’m going to wake up now.”

Pepper seems to echo the same expression. “Me too. I don’t want to. We need more time to plan!”

“You can, you’re together in the hospital,” Aziraphale reminds them. “Just tell us the plan.”

“So we’re going to wake up?” Adam clarifies as he examines the fog swirling around his ankles.

Wensleydale is already fading from the stone circle. “See you there.”

The children wave to each other. The Them fade away with the mist. Anathema watches the fog.

“Am I going to wake up? Ever, I mean?” she asks.

Aziraphale looks at her in worry. “Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley, however, smiles at her in support. “Of course. You’re healing so I let you rest. If you’re ready, though, you can. You won’t be able to get out of bed yet.”

She glares. “How long am I bedridden?”

Aziraphale laughs softly, a low chuckle. “Oh, my dear girl, soon. Very soon.”

She can feel herself fading away. Moments later, she’s back in front of her bathroom mirror. Crowley’s yellow eyes blink at her in the reflection. Something beeps in her dream. It’s repetitive.

Beep, beep.

Beep, beep.

Beep, beep.

Steady. A pattern.

Anathema wakes and opens her eyes.

Beep, beep.

Beep, beep.

Her heart monitor measures her pulse.

Hesitantly, she reaches down and touches her flat belly. It aches. Sorrow crashes over her. Anathema’s unclear if she’s grieving or relieved. She closes her eyes and hides her tears.


	26. GALAXY A2744 YD4, 13.20 LIGHTYEARS FROM THE EARTH

GALAXY A2744 YD4, 13.20 LIGHTYEARS FROM THE EARTH

Physics locks certainties into place. Of course, humans have a limited understanding of all the facts in the universe. Some they theorize must exist because the math says they may. Some they experience but have no words or numbers to explain. And some of these rules God Herself is still bending and devising. The universe if infinite, after all, and She is a duality of both steady and ever-changing, as is Her nature.

Early on in Creation, She experimented with carbon and extreme pressure for years. The Lord liked how meteorological events in high pressure made rubies and diamonds rain onto planets. It seems primitive now compared to this recent work. She toys with crystal formations now. Can individual snowflakes maintain their crystal structures in larger sizes without amalgamating with others (as they do on Earth)? She’s successfully created coin-sized crystal structures. They continue to clump, even after She repeatedly forced Her will on them.

This leaves Her frustrated as She returns to Her hidden corner of the galaxy. God could return to any of Her creations and check-in, but they’re so needy and boring. They stay within the roles She assigned them, never veering. Even humans with their Free Will lack any ability to surprise Her.

This is why when She sees the death certificate in Her inbox She is surprised. The Lord is very rarely surprised. Upside-down, She reads that Aziraphale and his flaming sword have smited the demon Dagon (formerly Tasaphal of angelic stock).

That alone gives Her pause. When did Aziraphale get his sword back?

She lifts the death certificate only to find another below it. Beelzebub (formerly Baal of angelic stock) has smited the archangel Gabriel. That surprises Her. She thought that She’d sorted this out by changing their power levels. Beelzebub and Gabriel should have been lower orders in their respective sides. Why were they on Earth at all?

Under this death certificate, She finds a Scroll. A third of the Earth’s living things are wiped out. She yanks the Scroll from the inbox only to find another Scroll for Darkness beneath it. They’re each signed by a collection of demonic princes and archangels. Her blood boils. These were Her orders which She was to open at the end of time. Somehow Her faithful and damned children have taken it upon themselves to force the end.

She turns to Her own psyche and rolls back time and location until She is on Earth in its past. Brexit. Some idiot reality TV star in the White House. Hong Kong democracy protestors shot. She skims past it all while absorbing every prayer in every language. She has been absent for so long that humanities need is overwhelming. They pray about everything—She shifts through their mantras and songs until She finds what should have been the beginning of the Great War between Heaven and Hell.

While She already knows the board stripes, maybe it’s worth studying in-depth. She considers the players on the airfield and laughs aloud when Aziraphale and Crowley sass back. Their commentary is reasonably on the nose, as it were.

_“But it might be written differently somewhere else! Where you can’t read it!”_

_“It bigger letters!”_

_“Underlined.”_

_“Twice.”_

Then Adam’s dismisses his Hellish father. It plays out as it often does for absent human parents; they expect loyalty when they gave none themselves. They’re doomed to disappointment. She’s not surprised. Poor Lucifer, She thinks, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She knows that Her parenting needed work. She files the moment of introspection away for later and peels time forward.

Aziraphale and Crowley switch forms and She admits it’s clever. She watches their trials (the farce that they are) play out. Time skips forward with Her will: the Ritz, long mornings cuddled in bed, copious bottles of wine.

It unravels then. A new virus sends the humans scrambling. Aziraphale and Crowley separate for lockdown. Simultaneously, the angels discover Her absence and She winces. It’s only worse from there—they go ahead with their half-baked plan. And then a joint attack from Heaven and Hell on the Bookshop. They gang press neutral forces into implementing the Scrolls.

It’s a mess.

She dips into the timeline and floats around Earth in its present moment. She knows (as She knows all) that there is a critical point ahead. She sees the possibilities and worries over them. This was not Her Plan for the end, or even Her vision in any way, shape, or form. Guilt gnaws at her. What did She expect? She gave them no ability to deviate from their set roles, then skived off. She’d assumed that it would be like all the other worlds where She’d devised a similar system. Demons and angels though had powers. They’d created and culled once. She should have known.

And those who developed creativity and freedom, Her Earth-stationed Principality and Serpent, were nearly murdered for breaking free of such roles. Really, She chides Herself again, She should have known!

She tastes the air around the planet where the darkness of the Scroll has lifted. Love—the kind grown from 6,000 years of friendship and devotion. She would laugh if She wasn’t so worried. Sometimes those two were more trouble than they were worth. God noted the stars they created with the power of their imagination and nearly smiled.

Even if She didn’t know exactly where every being on Earth was already, Aziraphale and Crowley’s love is easy to follow. It’s like a trail. And it’s more than their mutual adoration and respect for one another, but their love also encompasses humanity and the world around them. It’s a beam of light that directs Her to the center of a stone circle. A mix of good and evil players linger there, frozen in this space between milliseconds. She knows them all.

Crowley and Aziraphale are in the thick of it, of course. They’re asleep and deep in a dream. The archangel Jeremiel is clearly guiding humans in as well. She touches their minds and sees the convoluted plan from four children, a young woman, and these two miscreants.

The Lord rears back when She hears something ridiculous: that negative feelings are affecting them. What? She digs deeper. She shouldn’t be terribly surprised at what She finds, although She is.

Gadreel was an anxious angel. (She wasn’t proud of experimenting on Her first children, but mental health had to be created some time.) Because Crowley was once Gadreel, Crowley was an anxious demon.

She pedals back time and sees the way he reacted to Aziraphale and his separation during the lockdown. (Slither over and watch Aziraphale eat cake, indeed. Sometimes She’s embarrassed that She created him the way She did. Mostly, it’s just second-hand embarrassment at this point.) Crowley wiggles and tosses when he should be napping. Then he’s off like a shot, racing around and burning energy that he swears he has an excess of.

Crowley believes that the Pandemic has increased negative energy (and he wasn’t wrong on that front). However, he also believes that it has “supercharged” him. And it becomes true. He was, after all, the only demon with imagination.

Unfortunately, once it was true for one demon, it was true for them all. And because Aziraphale sees it happening to Crowley, he believes the opposite for himself must be true. And once it’s true for one angel, it’s true for them all.

If She had a face or hands, She’d facepalm.

God considers the human children’s vacuum plan. It’s crude but viable. It gives Her another avenue, however. She considers the mix of beings in the stone circle. She smiles indulgently when She sees her own boy there. Yeshua looks worried though and it grieves Her. She might be an absent mother, but She loves deeply.

She studies Her son, She remembers him begging Her to “let this cup pass” away from him—he wanted the chance to live. She’d have let him. He was human, after all.

It strikes Her then what must happen. When the world came into being, She gave a certain free will to all beings. The fox might lack ethical choices, but it can still decide for itself to leave the den or such. Truthfully, angels and demons lacked even this—from the Beginning, they’d had a Plan to follow. They could not move beyond their roles of “good” or “evil”. (She studies Aziraphale’s prone form. He suffered for many, many years as he danced what he thought the divide between these was. If only he’d gone with Crowley’s foregone conclusion, he would have been much happier. She sighs.)

With a decisive snap, every being in time has Free Will. It’s the cleanest solution to this current problem. With a smirk, She sits back to watch what happens. This world suddenly has possibilities branching out of it. For the first time in eons, The Lord is curious about what will happen next.


	27. EARTH, ROLLRIGHT STONES, CHIPPING NORTON (OXFORDSHIRE) - 6 HOURS LEFT - SIGNAL THE IMP

EARTH, ROLLRIGHT STONES, CHIPPING NORTON (OXFORDSHIRE) - 6 HOURS LEFT - SIGNAL THE IMP

Aziraphale and Crowley lived on Earth for 6,000 plus years. In that time they have seen sin in its every facet. They learned what was “right” and “wrong” from experience, which can and has differed from the “official” stance.

For instance, on paper, all children are sinners because of Eve’s original sin. With such logic, they can die. Yet, Crowley knows that murdering of children is wrong. He learned that because he knew them. He swung them up into his arms and allowed them to plait his hair. They were innocent. Similarly, war can be right, no matter what it says on paper. Aziraphale learned that because he walked through the villages and towns that suffered under a despot’s thumb. He’s seen how starving out people can force those leaders’ hands. Hunger starts revolts and, sometimes, violence is the only language that such leaders understand.

Unfortunately, they’re the only two with this benefit.

Signal is an imp. Imps serve as assistants for major functions. They haul paper and tally sins. He has never been Topside, even though Crowley has encouraged him to visit. He has never forgotten what happened to Usher and the bathtub of Holy Water.

All of this is to say that when Signal spontaneously receives Free Will he is unprepared to deal with it. Humans learn empathy—hopefully at home from the time they were little, but certainly in school lessons. Demons had only been taught to be cruel—they have only ever had, as Freud would put it, an id. That means that at this moment, he has questions.

Why is he evil?

Does he want to be evil?

How does he feel about sin?

Wait… has he even sinned himself? Really, _really_ sinned?

It’s an existential crisis, which is naturally a very human idea. Signal has never even heard of an existential crisis. It is a lot to take in—he suddenly has an ego and superego to impose into his thinking. He twitches and nearly bursts into tears.

As the questions swirl around him, a sharp pain begins in his middle. All the demons around him, Crowley included, stop their own questioning and wince in pain.

Satan is coming.

This knowledge drums in their veins like blood. Their Lord and Master approaches. The ground splits open and he climbs out. Signal hasn’t seen Satan in several thousand years. In fact, few demons have. He holed up in his pit and pouted. He’s not looking suave like Crowley. Satan is dressed like a middle-aged layabout in a plain white vest (complete with food stains), grey sweatpants, and athletic socks with black slide sandals. He lacks the usual power associated with him, Signal notes. He’s not huge and muscular. Instead, he’s looking a bit soft around the middle and is more sunburned than red-skinned.

Signal considers taking a kneel and pledging his allegiance, but to what end? Why does he follow Satan? Sure, in Heaven, eons ago, Lucifer Morningstar had it going on. He convinced angels to rise up against God Herself. Now, he just looks like he needs a shower and an appointment with someone to talk about his mental health.

“ **ALL SHALL BOW** ,” he roars.

No one moves. Several angels look ready to fight.

“Ugh, hey there, Satan, my lord,” says Crowley with a little hand raise.

“ **CROWLEY, DARLING** ,” Satan begins, but then instantly stops.

It’s the worst moment ever because Satan sizes Crowley up and gives a short, angry yell. Like Signal, Crowley and Satan (and everyone else) have vastly different power levels now. Signal considers this also in his existential crisis. (How did this happen? Was it meant to happen this way? What does this make Hastur now, as a simple imp now has his abilities? Was Signal now a Duke? Did Signal want to be a Duke?) Satan is definitely at a complete and surprising disadvantage.

Crowley hisses and bites his lower lip when Satan yells. “Er, yeah, well, anyway, welcome back to Earth. It’s been… what? Since the Beginning since you’ve been up here? The air qualities’ different, but otherwise—“

“ **YOU ARE MORE THAN A TRAITOR, YOU USURPING SNAKE** ,” Satan yelled and made as if to charge at the other demon. “ **THE LEGIONS OF HELL RISE! WE GO TO WAR**!”

Signal the imp had, in a distant sort of way, centuries prior, agreed to his portion in the Great War. Sure, he’d fight. Of course, go Hell! Got to root for the home team, right? But then, when it was canceled, he couldn’t help but be grateful. He didn’t really want to be a soldier. So, for the first time in his life, Signal considered his own needs and wants.

“I think,” Signal said consideringly, “I’d rather go to the British Virgin Islands.”

And with a snap he did.


End file.
